


The Spectre's Wreath

by RebrandedBard



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Christmas fic, Cursed Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Curses, Fairy Tale Curses, Fairy Tale Elements, Fluff, Geralt has a fun time being a nerd at the academy and Jaskier is living for it, M/M, Minor Violence, Mutual Pining, Oxenfurt (The Witcher), Pining, Sharing a Bed, True Love's Kiss, Winter At Oxenfurt (The Witcher), Yule, and there was only one bed (oh my god there was only one bed)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-18 15:08:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28745250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RebrandedBard/pseuds/RebrandedBard
Summary: Geralt is wrongfully hired to dispose of a vengeful spectre that haunts a lake, only to discover it is the town's unknown guardian and the very spirit of Yule itself. Yule curses Geralt with a wreath atop his head. If he does not receive a kiss before the lake thaws in spring, he will turn to ice and die. With the pass to Kaer Morhen closed up, Geralt decides to spend his last winter in Oxenfurt with Jaskier. But it may not be his last after all if Jaskier has anything to say about it.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 99
Kudos: 212





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chaneen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaneen/gifts).



The villagers had been wrong. It had not been a wraith, nor had it been a vengeful spirit. Nothing lurked by the lakeside. It could not be called lurking, for that would imply something of a malicious nature, and there was naught to be found but love upon the ice, and nothing but love lost beneath it. The spectre the villagers saw did not break the ice under skating children when they wandered onto the lake, but it was always there to mourn after. It lived in the lake, guarding that which had drowned at its bottom in centuries past, stitching up the ice at night, enforcing it with a tirelessly spun lace of frost so that none might fall through again. And Geralt had nearly banished it in his ignorance.

Now he dangled in the water, his body below the ice, head above, the cold spectre’s grip around his neck. It glared down at him, wreathed in holly and mistletoe, draped in the lace of snowflakes whose patterns were lost to the seasons. Here, beside this very lake, was the birthplace of Yuletide. And from the edge of the lake had the first tree been cut whose log would be the first Yule log. It was that woodcutter who lit the spark that cast the divine light from which the spectre was born. And it was that woodcutter who drowned in the lake, leaving the spirit to forever mourn.

The fire Geralt had started was now smothered beneath the snow. He’d found the stump of the tree which lay for years untouched by time and rot and set it ablaze to be rid of the spectre. The hand which gripped his throat was now welted with burns, but it held firm.

“You would have murdered,” the spectre accused. Its voice was hollow and creaked like the trunk of old trees that swayed in the wind. “You would have killed _Yule_ , who has done nothing but love. I have brought _nothing_ but warmth in the emptiness of winter. And why?”

Geralt’s voice was strained as he replied, feeling already half-frozen beneath the ice. “For love,” he answered. “The love of frightened mothers who did not know you.”

“You do not know love. Not of mothers, nor any other kind.”

“I do,” Geralt refuted, the words raspy and weak against the strength of his conviction. “I _do_ know love.” His heart gave a tremble, afraid of the ice seeping into his veins. His blood would freeze soon and he would die. He would die another pointless death, following in the tragic tradition of all witchers who walked the Path before him. In the dead of winter, he would die without even the comfort of one last trip home, having faced a year’s cruelties, knowing the ugliness of men. But he’d die knowing love. And he’d die spitting that truth in the world’s face.

The spectre— _Yule_ —did not look at him in hatred or disgust. It did not seem to think anything of him at all. Even anger was lacking in its eyes. “Who loves you, witcher?” it asked in the same empty manner.

And Geralt closed his eyes. That was different.

 _He_ loved his family … his friends … he loved his horse. Against all odds, he loved. Defying every rumor, every story, every tale which swore to the clear skies above that witchers felt nothing, love least of all, he _did_ love.

Love had found its way into his heart, the strings of it plucked like the chords of a lute by calloused fingers—those same fingers which had stitched him up so many times when he was carved by claws and teeth. Love sang to him across campfires, or whispered to him in dark corners of pubs and ballrooms. Love shared three seasons with him a year, and Geralt had left him without a proper good-bye, assuming so comfortably that he would have another spring ahead, and it would be years before they should even begin to learn to say the word. He never wanted to. Because, silently, he loved.

Geralt knew love. He was afraid to make it known, lest that love be denied him. That was the way with his every love, and as consequence, he did not know what it was to _be_ loved. There had been times when he’d wanted to learn, but the world had made a coward of him in this.

“I’ll never know,” he said. The water lapped at his numb lips. He imagined for a final moment that it was not the spectre’s fingers wrapped in a vice around his neck, but warm hands. The bitter sting of the water disappeared, replaced by something softer. One last delusion, he wished he might have tried kissing Jaskier once: one drunken night of many in a pub, or at a festival as custom bid, or any number of times. He wondered if this dream in the throes of death was any true comparison. But it was too late to form regrets.

“It doesn’t matter now.”

His eyes opened once more to look up at the grey sky and he cursed it for denying him at least one last look at the color blue. At _any_ color. This world of white and grey was so different from Jaskier and his bright world of spring, summer, and autumn, so full of warmth. He shut his eyes against it and waited to sink below the water’s surface, trying to call up the image of spring.

And he waited.

And rose.

Geralt gasped as he was dropped upon the ice. The frigid wind blew against his chest and when he breathed, he felt as though the wind were punching into his lungs. The shock of it made him long again for the water. It seemed so much warmer by comparison. He looked up at the spectre, dripping and shaking like a dog.

The spectre appraised him, its eyes so pale and white. They seemed to be looking into his very soul. They must have found something there, for the spectre knelt beside him, the frost falling away from Geralt’s skin. “You will learn,” it said.

As Geralt watched, it raised its hands up to the wreath it wore and removed it with care, placing it on Geralt’s own head.

“I offer you my blessing: you will have until the lake thaws this coming spring,” it said. “If you learn before then, I will forgive your transgression for their sake. If you are kissed before the last of the ice melts, you will be free. If not, you will turn to ice, just as you would have within my waters. Take this blessing and go forth.”

“It’s a curse,” Geralt argued.

“It is one and the same.”

The spectre vanished in a piercing wind, leaving Geralt alone on the ice. As he lay shivering, the warmth slowly returning to his core, the air continued to blow against him. It shook the leaves of the wreath against his hair with a gentle rustling. Before he succumbed to the dark, he felt for it, but his hands met only his own soaked hair.

The pass had been closed when he’d arrived at the foot of the mountain. He’d come too late. It had been many long years since he’d been snowed out of Kaer Morhen, and the winter would be hard. He hadn’t much coin saved to see him through the storms ahead, and there wouldn’t be much work for him as he travelled west to seek warmer climes. He had turned from the pass, wondering where he ought to begin searching out a place to live out his final season, when his feet had started moving of their own accord, carrying him southwest.

Oxenfurt.

He stood now before the imposing structure of the university in the midst of the city and stared up at the open gates. It was late evening and the snow was beginning to pile up on the street. Jaskier had casually offered to put him up in his room once, should he ever get the itch to sit in on one of his lectures in the wintertime. Geralt was sure that place would be occupied by now with some paramour. They’d parted weeks ago, and Jaskier had returned to whatever life he lead when the chill set in. After coming this far, he didn’t want to be turned away as an awkward imposition.

Geralt looked at the shining emblem on the gate. He saw his own stony expression reflected back at him, the spectre’s wreath taunting him from the polished brass. He ran a hand over his empty hair, watching the leaves ruffle in the reflection. Then he turned back up the brick drive, Roach’s hooves clip-clopping at his side. At the front entrance, he found two pages, and sent one in to summon Jaskier. Unsure, he wracked his brain for the other name, and thus Professor Pankratz was produced.

Jaskier looked as if he’d run straight from his lecture hall, dressed in a funny red robe and hat. His cheeks were flushed and he stood in the great doorway, his eyes round with disbelief. A wide grin broke out over his face as Geralt nodded. That was all Jaskier needed before launching himself at Geralt’s chest, wrapping his arms around his shoulders.

“You’re here!” he cried. “Really here—at _Oxenfurt_. In winter no less! Come, let me have a look at you. What’s happened to you, Geralt?” Jaskier pulled back to inspect him, looking carefully for any sign of injury.

“Pass was closed,” Geralt said. He looked to one side, leaving the question implied, unable to ask. He thumbed at Roach’s reins nervously.

Jaskier smiled brighter. “So you’ve come to stay?” he asked.

Geralt nodded.

At once, Jaskier turned to a page and said, “Please take this horse to my empty stall and treat her with care.” He began to help himself to the bags on her saddle, untying and tossing them over his shoulders. He did not seem to mind in the least that he was wrinkling his robes. “Come with me; I’ll show you where you’ll be staying. Just promise you won’t scrutinize the mess too closely and I’ll have everything cleared within the hour. Remember: you’re _my_ guest—my _surprise_ guest. If you complain about the mess I’ll kick you out on your ears! Until the end of winter, I am your landlord, and therefore your Lord. Pray you hold your tongue!” He laughed at his own joke and strode through the doors, leaving Geralt to trail behind him with the last of the bags.

Geralt had been to Oxenfurt before to listen to many lecturers give their lessons. He was something of an academic himself, enough that his brothers called him an insufferable pedant when he corrected them on the more obscure monster lore. Still, he found the halls imposing, and he was aware of the eyes on him, peeking from behind doors and around corners as they went by. Curious students tiptoed from a safe distance, following in a subtle procession.

“Here we are,” Jaskier announced. He unlocked the door and nudged it open, revealing a unexpectedly tidy room. Geralt entered behind and Jaskier shut the door again, but not before flapping his hands at the braver students who came to peek through the doorway.

Geralt had never seen a place so … exact. Yes, that was the right word. It fit Jaskier _exactly._ All the trappings, the bits and baubles—he could pick them out of a shop and say to himself, “Jaskier would like this,” among any number of things. There were scenic paintings on the wall: frames and frames of sweeping landscapes, many which he recognized from their travels. There were a number of small portraits as well.

“Family and friends,” Jaskier explained, ushering him further inside. “All by my own hand, if you doubt my diploma. I mastered all _seven_ of the liberal arts, and many others besides. Come sit by the fire and allow me to brag about the embroidery on the chairs. Took me three months last winter to complete.”

Geralt caught a glimpse of a scratchy charcoal sketch bearing his own likeness in one frame among the finer paintings. He felt a warmth spreading from his chest, chasing away the snow before they’d even reached the fireplace. The portrait was small, small enough to have been cut from the pages of Jaskier’s notebook. Geralt wondered when he’d drawn it. He wanted a better look, but Jaskier was nudging him toward the fire impatiently.

Jaskier set Geralt’s things down in his little parlour with a satisfied sigh. He then tossed his hat onto a chaise lounge, dug his way out of the robes, and tossed them as well. He stretched and gestured the empty chair across from him.

“Make yourself at home,” Jaskier said. He beamed with pride at the words, as if he’d been waiting a long time to say them.

The chair was embroidered with many yellow flowers against a fine blue velvet. Geralt admired the detail on the arm before settling in and taking in the rest of his surroundings. The mess was limited to a few tables covered over with papers, bobbins, charcoal, ink bottles, pens, paint, and all other manner of artistic supplies. The floor itself was well maintained. As long as he wasn’t tripping over anything, he considered it clean. Privately he thought he would not mind tripping in such a room: the carpets which covered the stone looked soft.

Jaskier was looking at him expectantly, blue eyes shining with delight.

“It’s nice,” Geralt grunted, looking at the tapestries and curtains on the wall. The pattern was complex on the border of one, and the scene in the center depicted a lion and unicorn fighting for a crown. The panels on the border depicted many other familiar stories. It was a fantastic piece, and he could not imagine how much it had cost to produce. It occurred to him that Jaskier was invited to entertain in the halls of kings. And Jaskier always dressed very fine, keeping up with the fashion. Geralt had never given it much thought, but he had more than enough to live quite comfortably off the Path.

“Are you hungry? Parched?” Jaskier asked, hovering in front of his seat. “I’ve got a small cupboard here if you’d like something to nibble on. I’m afraid proper mealtimes are strictly observed in the academy, and the cook has turned in for the evening. If you need something more filling, we can go into town. I know a pub that ought to be open still.”

Geralt shook his head. “I’m fine, thank you.”

“Then would you like a tour? Or perhaps I can help you unpack. I can move a few things around, get a drawer ready for you, find you a place to hang your cloak.”

Jaskier was already dashing to the next room, arranging things in a large bureau. He shoved several pairs of trousers into one drawer and transferred several more pairs of vivid stockings into another. When he stood up, he scrambled to collect all the scattered papers on its surface into a neat pile. He looked a bit scattered himself, though excited, as if he did not quite know what to do with Geralt in his rooms. For all his affairs, torrid and casual, Geralt would have expected him to be more familiar with entertaining guests.

As Jaskier muttered to himself, clearing up, Geralt abandoned his chair. He approached quietly, entering the bedroom upon the pretense of helping Jaskier clean. In truth, he wanted to see the rest of the dwelling. Standing against the far wall was a handsome bed with four posters and heavy curtains. Jaskier’s lute sat on a stand nearby, his notebook on the floor, open among a selection of books depicting sketches of landscapes across the Continent. Geralt leaned over these, peeking at his notebook:

_Merry in Metinna, we rode into Mag Turga,_

_and Tarn Mira’s shores did welcome weary waymen._

_Such scholarly provisions and such succulent persimmons,_

_They made a king of every ling’ring laymen._

They’d gone to Mag Turga that summer, and Jaskier had been hired to play a party. When he met again with Geralt, he’d smuggled a small bag of persimmons from the event for Geralt to try. It appeared he was writing of them now, and as usual, he was neck-deep in research as to where they’d come from. Jaskier was often sidetracked with such questions when writing.

Geralt chuckled to himself. Seeing all the books laying open on the rug was much the same as looking inside of Jaskier’s head.

He plucked a book from a shelf on the wall as he walked back toward Jaskier. “What is it you lecture on? Musical theory?” He flipped back the cover, skimming through a collection of songs.

“Would it shock you to hear that I teach philosophy?” Jaskier asked.

Geralt snapped the book shut, a startled scoff accompanying the sound. “You don’t,” he said.

Jaskier snorted. “No, I don’t. But I wanted to see how you’d react.” He kicked the bottom drawer closed and dusted his hands. “I teach composition,” he answered. “My classes boast the finest bards every spring. Forgive me, but I _must_ toot my own horn—and trumpet, and flute, recorder, and any other tooting thing you can find. I’m rather proud of my students.”

He strode over to Geralt and plucked the cloak from his shoulders, draping it over a hook. “Really, when I said to make yourself at home, I thought you might at least take the cue to dress down. You can’t be so uncomfortable here as to keep your cloak on.” The minute it was off, Jaskier set to fiddling with the buckles of Geralt’s armour. “What?” he asked. “Are you afraid the Headmaster will chase you out the minute word gets around you’ve arrived? It’s safe to settle in, my friend. Nobody’s going to run you through the halls with pitchforks raised.”

“I was preparing for letter-knives and pointed pens,” Geralt joked.

“You’ll find none of those either. I’ve made it long known that if my white wolf came knocking that the door would be opened to him. Your song has given this university a lot of credit, and if they intend to boast about me, then they’ve got to live with the consequences. They cannot reap the rewards of a witcher’s reputation and shun the man when he comes round!” he declared.

He softened enough to wink at Geralt. “Actually, you’re the subject of some fascination among our little society. People have been asking me to host you for years. They want to meet the man behind the myth—but of course, I intend to monopolize your time. They can have you for an hour or two this winter, if that. I’m afraid you’ll be _much_ too busy relaxing to indulge their company.”

Jaskier gathered the pieces of Geralt’s armour and piled them beside his bureau to dry before being stashed away. He pointed to them deliberately, smiling with the pleasure of authority. “Time for rules! Rule one: no armour. No work. You’re going to lay about all winter enjoying every amusement the university has to offer and I want to hear no arguments from you about it.”

“Are you _demanding_ that I make a burden of myself?” Geralt asked.

“Yes,” Jaskier replied, looking thoroughly pleased with himself. “I want you to leave this spring feeling like a spoiled housecat and twice as fat.”

“I’m not for leisure.”

Jaskier dismissed him with a wave of his hand. “I’ll soon teach you. You’ll get so used to it, you’ll want to stay every winter, I guarantee.”

Geralt raised a brow at him. “Every winter?” he repeated.

“Naturally. A housecat needs a house to laze in. Now shut up and help me unpack before I teach you the fine art of being a lazy lump—no getting started without me. I’ve only got the one task for you before you turn into a sloth, and I can’t do it alone or you’ll complain I’ve folded your shirts wrong. I have no idea how you store your clothes; you’ll just have to show me.”

They soon had Geralt’s things tucked nicely in two drawers. He dried his armour with a towel and tucked it away in one, alongside his potions and travelling supplies, stuffing it quite full, enough to carry over into the second. His bedroll was hidden away in a closet, his swords hung on the wall. His clothes needed little room, but what room he required was not to be found in the two drawers. Jaskier at last decided they simply share a drawer and folded Geralt’s shirts among his own without another word.

“I’m glad you arrived when you did,” Jaskier said, plucking a nightgown from the bureau. “Another half hour and I would have been asleep. They would have had to put you up elsewhere—I’d rather not think of them turning you away with the weather coming on.” As he talked, Jaskier began to undress, tossing his shirt onto the floor. “You might’ve had to sleep in the stable, or in some empty dorm. Either way, you’d wake up in the morning a block of ice.”

Geralt turned away quickly as Jaskier shed his trousers. “And yet you’ve taken my bedroll and shoved it into hiding. I’ll freeze just the same on your lounge without it,” he said.

Jaskier laughed. He bent into Geralt’s line of sight, now dressed in unusually abundant modesty, the nightgown hanging below his knees. “Do you really think I’d put you up all winter on the _lounge?_ After all the beds we’ve shared in inns and boarding houses across the Continent, do you think I’d be so greedy? My bed is big enough to fit _three_ of you shoulder to shoulder.”

He walked behind Geralt and ruffled his hair. “Go on, get ready for bed!” he urged. “You can put out the fire when you’re done and join me.”

There was a mirror on the bureau, and Geralt watched Jaskier’s fingers tousle the wreath in its reflection. Somehow, a few minutes with Jaskier had been enough to make him forget. This place felt so warm and lived-in. So safe. The winter outside was banished at the door, and the memory of the lake along with it. The reality of his purpose in Oxenfurt struck him. He was here to live out his final days.

Geralt smothered the fire in the parlour, letting the darkness fill the room. He wondered if he ought to write to his fellow wolves, perhaps seek out a mage. Even as he thought it, he knew there was no point. The spectre was old as the hills, its power strong. If he was to die anywhere, he’d rather it be somewhere as nice as Oxenfurt. At least here he could have one good-bye.

He undressed and slipped under the sheets silently. It was comfortable, bundled up in Jaskier’s bed. He turned on his pillow, breathing in the scent. It smelled of Jaskier, a little like cloves and cinnamon. Like warmth. During the year, he smelled more of sunlight, floral in spring, woody in summer, and crisp in autumn. He wore winter well, still recognizable, but something more comforting in the cold. Always he changed, but it was him. If Geralt could describe it, he supposed he’d call it consistent. He smelled of consistency, just as a house changes day to day, but is always recognizable when one returns from lands apart. It was a privilege to discover.

Jaskier shifted closer conspiratorially. “I’m glad you’re here,” he whispered. “I was considering putting on another blanket last night as the chill set in. Now I won’t need one.”

“Would’ve thought that ridiculous nightgown would keep you warm,” Geralt replied.

“You hush. I’ll have you know they’re extremely comfortable.”

Geralt smiled humorously, eyeing Jaskier in the dark. It was such an odd thing for Jaskier to wear, and this was a man who’d worn a tunic entirely made of feathers to a party. “You only wear your underthings to bed. If that.”

“On the _Path_ maybe. I wouldn’t pack a nightgown on the Path when my bag is occupied with so many other necessities. It’s hot during the year, and I’d be sweating out of my skin in one. But if you’re going to _complain_ about it, I’m more than happy to strip for you. Be warned, however, that there’s nothing else beneath.”

Geralt snorted. “Shut up and keep your dress on,” he said.

“Words which have _never_ before been said in this room,” Jaskier chuckled.

The notion made Geralt’s stomach twist. He reached across to drape a hand over Jaskier’s hip and pulled him closer, jealously. “Shut up and sleep,” he said. He tried not to think the thoughts which had occupied his walk up the university drive about who he expected to be occupying his current spot in the plush bed.

Jaskier wriggled, situating himself, and wrapped an arm over Geralt’s torso. “What, no goodnight kiss?”

He grunted. “Can kiss my ass.”

“With pleasure. Bend over, won’t you?”

_“Jaskier.”_

“Ah,” Jaskier sighed. “There he is. I missed that tone. _Now_ I feel truly at home.”

“Good _night,_ Jaskier.”

Jaskier pressed a kiss to his temple with an exaggerated _muah._ “Good night, Geralt,” he replied.

Geralt hummed and closed his eyes. Though it was nothing more than a joke, the warmth of Jaskier’s lips lingered, and he felt quite warm as he lay beneath the covers. Jaskier seemed to hold him closer than those nights when they might huddle for warmth those last days of autumn. Perhaps Jaskier had really missed him in his absence. Perhaps the hall was colder, and he simply ran too hot to tell. Whatever the reason, whatever the excuse, he found it was quite the easiest thing in the world to draw Jaskier against him in his sleep, arms wrapped securely around him, head beneath his chin, drifting to sleep to the sound of his peaceful breath.

In the morning, unbeknownst to either one of them, a little white berry lay under the bed, having fallen from Geralt’s pillow in the night.

[Art](https://rebrandedbard.tumblr.com/post/640271435645026304/a-drawing-of-jaskier-in-his-oxenfurt-dress-robes) by me, [RebrandedBard](https://rebrandedbard.tumblr.com/)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic was written as thanks to chaneen for helping me with laptop stuff and it accidentally got out of hand. It'll be in two parts because I'm impatient and want to share art lol.


	2. Chapter 2

When Geralt awoke, he found himself alone in the warm apartment. It was not often that Jaskier woke before him, and on the odd occasion he did, Geralt was always disturbed to some degree, stirred just enough to mumble a ‘good morning’ before turning back over, for Jaskier was sure to have woken just before dawn to nature’s call and would be back in bed just as quickly. It only ever came after the rare night of drunken merriment when they drank on the generosity of others: equally waterlogged admirers of Jaskier’s singing.

The trek down from the pass had been more exhausting than Geralt anticipated. At least, that was the excuse he used to justify his sleeping in. He hadn’t so much as felt the dip of the bed as Jaskier rose. Perhaps he was more used to the bard’s company than he cared to admit. He’d fallen asleep so quickly the night before.

A light streaked in from under heavy drapes. Geralt sat up and pulled them back, peeking out from the bed. He blinked at the early morning sunlight as it came pouring through the windows. He grunted and rolled back into the shade of the bed, tucking the coverlet up over his ears. It was cold outside. Protected by the curtain, under the sheets, it was cozy. His foot touched warm metal and he discovered a warming pan filled with sand and a precious few pieces of ember tucked in the center, now gone out. Jaskier had left it for him, it seemed.

Geralt sighed, stealing a few more moments beneath in the covers.

After he’d leeched the last remains of comfort from the warming pan, he finally found the courage needed to brave the morning chill. He did not get cold easily, nor did he mind the cold, but the bed was soft and inviting, not to mention deliciously snug. Nonetheless, he crawled from the comfortable depths of his blankets and set his bare feet upon the rug. At least he need not touch the bare floor.

He dressed and entered the little parlour room. There he found a tray with breakfast waiting for him on a table and a freshly stacked pile of wood in the fireplace grate. Geralt smiled at the gesture but left the logs unlit. Instead, he sat in the blue chair and had his breakfast, warmed well enough by a ray of sunlight. It was a porridge of some kind with a fried egg on top. Beside it, an assortment of dried figs, soft cheese, and a small pot of marmalade. By his usual standards, it was a tidy bit of fare. The warming pan, the breakfast, the ready fire; it seemed Jaskier was eager to play the good host.

When he finished breakfast, Geralt pocketed a few figs and wandered the apartment, wondering what he ought to do next. He was out of his element and had nothing in the way of a schedule or task. Though Vesemir often let the wolves have their rest the first week of winter, by noon they were all put to some light chore or other to ease them into the season. Here, he had no work to waiting, and Jaskier was not around to direct him.

Having nothing else to do, Geralt fetched his swords and inspected them, did a bit of repair on the sheath of one. That done, he borrowed a length of thread from one of the bobbins crowding Jaskier’s entry table and stitched up a patch on his travelling cloak. When he’d finished, less than an hour had passed. He sighed, slouching forward in his chair. He was not made to be idle.

Nothing for it, he decided it was time to look for Jaskier.

Geralt tossed his cloak around his shoulders and slipped out into the chilly hall. As he left the staff dormitory, he began to come upon a few tired-eyed students milling about in the early morning. With some amusement, he noted that they were too irked at being roused for classes to take notice of him as he went. There was something comfortable about the apathetic attitudes of the self-involved youth, too busy being young and interesting and beautiful to bother with the people coming and going in their peripheral vision.

He chuckled when he heard one student passing on the gossip of the previous night that a witcher was visiting the academy, only for his companion to say they’d rather arm-wrestle an intoxicated witcher than get up for another morning astrology lecture. After all, what was the point of an astrology lecture in the _morning_ when there were no stars to be seen? In passing, Geralt thought of offering the lad his arm to watch the blood drain from his face, but he simply continued to make his way toward the lecture halls. He’d save his mischief for more familiar company.

Composition, Geralt remembered. He knew Jaskier well enough to know he would not rise early for anything that could be otherwise avoided, and what could not be avoided was a contracted lecture with the academy. For a lecture on musical composition, Jaskier would have to be in the music hall. Geralt had attended a music lecture some decades ago after learning that Vesemir had been collecting old ballads with monster lore. Wanting to find a song he’d not yet recorded in their library in the keep, he’d attended a week-long seminar on ancient folk ballads. It had been with great satisfaction that he’d presented a copy of a foreign song to him during Yule: a tale of a malicious elf spirit known as the Erlkönig. He’d commissioned a linguistics professor to translate it for him, and it had been the most well-received gift of the year. He couldn’t deny he’d felt a kind of petty joy when Lambert had turned up with only a belt buckle.

The hall, he remembered, had been used to teach music since Oxenfurt’s earliest days. It was a bit of trivia the lecturer had discussed on the first day of that seminar. Evidently, the first professor had been the head of a choir and had gone singing in each and every corridor to find the hall with the best acoustics. One could find the right hall by listening to the sound of their footsteps echoing back, or by giving a subtle cough in the center of it. Geralt knew the place, could hear the soft whistle of the wind travelling through with his sensitive hearing, but he cleared his throat at the memory when he arrived, just to listen. It bounced quietly in the empty hall and he smiled.

Through a thick oak door, he heard the timber of a familiar voice. He approached the room, sneaking the door open a crack. Within, he spotted Jaskier, dressed again in that silly red robe. He was pacing before a collective of students who were far too alert for the early hour of morning. They leaned forward on their benches, scribbling notes in books and loose pieces of parchment, nodding their heads along as he spoke.

“—that the muse, of course, can be a fickle thing,” Jaskier said, voice projecting confidently into the back of the room. “There are some who find inspiration in a number of muses in short periods of time. Though fleeting, these muses are no lesser than the dedicated muse. We do not scorn the maple or the cherry blossom because they are not the evergreen. There is beauty in every inspiration, and music needs variety. There is a time for every song: as we sing traditional carols in the Yuletide from the days of our great-great-great ancestors, we also sing a catchy tune that might burn out by the end of a season with as much enthusiasm.”

 _“When a humble bard …”_ one student stage-whispered.

Geralt chuckled under his breath.

Jaskier smiled good-naturedly. “Forgive my boasting, but many seasons have passed since the day I wrote that song. It isn’t liable to run its course anytime soon,” he said, his chin jutting proudly out. “In fact, I’ve recently been approached by our own resident director to have the transcript added to our historic log of ballads, preserved in our library records.”

A light, earnest round of applause swept the room and Jaskier gave a humble bow. He waited a minute, then waved for them to settle. However, his latest accomplishment was something of a triumph in the academic circle. Having one’s work added to the Oxenfurt registry was a distinguished honour, as it marked the product as something culturally significant, worthy of preservation in the most prestigious archive on the Continent, tucked in among the gilded pages belonging to many other historic poets in the library of great works. Such things were reserved for the pride of the academy.

Geralt felt a small thrill of pride run through him. His friend would join in one of history’s exclusive, coveted collections. The song Jaskier had written of him, though its accounts were nothing more than pretense, had done good things for Geralt and his kind.

“Now then,” Jaskier said. “Back to the topic at hand. Though I encourage each and every one of you to explore whatever inspiration takes you, I wish to suggest you find a singular muse that resonates best and make that the focus of your attention for the duration of this term. Find that thing which calls to you, that fills your lungs and makes them burn until they burst with song! There is no greater satisfaction than finding your truest muse, whether that be in … well, seasonal invocation, the allure of adventure, the plight of your fellow man, love both ephemeral and mature, religion, beauty, the fundamental truths of the world, or the ditty you drum out on your glasses during your breakfast hour,” he joked.

The students chuckled. It impressed Geralt to see Jaskier dictate with such ease. It was much like how he spoke to Geralt during his daydreaming chatter on the Path, but there was something more refined to it. These were not casual ramblings, thoughts flung from his mouth without tickling his brain, but carefully rehearsed words, sprinkled with a touch of humorous improvisation. Jaskier commanded the room not like a stuffy old professor, but something like a friend. He was a father figure, a favorite cousin, the tavern regular with a story ready on his lips. He was the authority who held power not with a title or rod, but by making others _want_ to listen. His voice put others at ease. He spoke to the crowd, but he spoke to each and every individual, looked them in the eye in turn, made them feel an active part of the scene.

“A muse can also be a concept, not as the subject for your song, but as the motivation. Do you sing to make a person smile? To bring them to tears? Does your muse resemble a child learning their first dance? Perhaps you compose to bring a crew of sailors together under the dark sky.”

Jaskier’s voice softened as he glanced at his pupils. “Have any of you ever had a muse they would like to share with us?”

One student sat straighter and offered her vision. “I like to imagine an old woman,” she said. “A weaver or a spinster with knobby knuckles and veins. I want to write music that would make her forget the ache of her hands for the length of a song, enough that she would want to snap her fingers to the rhythm.”

“Yes!” Jaskier pointed to her, his eyes shining. “An excellent muse. Go on, who else?”

A boy waved his quill in the air. “I read a story once about a princess who never laughs. I want to write a bawdy ditty so funny that she would laugh, just as she did at the boy who marched beside the soldiers with a broom on his shoulder.”

Jaskier clapped his hands. The students went around one by one, inventing muses. Some were more traditional, simply inspired by nature or the nostalgia of simpler days gone by. Others spoke of similar imaginary figures, and a few told of more personal muses: family and friends.

“You have a muse, don’t you, Professor? The White Wolf?”

Jaskier nodded. “Yes. Geralt of Rivia,” he confirmed.

“What sort of muse is he?”

Geralt hid back, closing the door again the slightest bit. He knew he would not be seen, but hearing his name mentioned in such a place, in such a context … it made him feel exposed. But he did not close the door all the way. The question now asked, he wished to hear it answered.

Jaskier rubbed his chin. He hummed, looking out toward the window. “He’s many things. In him, I find adventure and companionship. Walking at his side, I get to see all of nature, all of man. I share in the most rural of festivals and the dreariest drudgery of day labor now and then.”

He paced at the front of the room, his thoughts now compelling him to move as they so often did on the road. When thinking, he never sat still; it was part of why their arrangement worked so well: Geralt on horseback, Jaskier on foot. What was walking but pacing with direction?

“I sing to soothe the path for him and others like him,” Jaskier said. “Not just the _‘Path,’_ capital P. The Path is exclusive to witchers. I speak of more than them, and I speak of another kind of path.” He shrugged. “I sing because I want to connect people, make them feel something. I immortalize moments I wish to keep. I suppose I’ve been lonely, and I want to make a home in everyone, or make a home _for_ them. At least for a while.”

_Who loves you, witcher?_

Listening to Jaskier’s speech, Geralt thought he knew. Though it was cold in the hall, his felt warm. He was dearer to his friend than he had hoped to imagine. That kindness, that devotion of purpose was something precious. Regardless of how, Geralt knew Jaskier cared for him deeply. They … they were a kind of family. Winter had brough him this truth, and he would carry it with him until the first thaw. He could be content with that.

He leaned against the doorframe, listening through the crack as he faced the empty corridor. He no longer watched, but closed his eyes and waited for the end of the lecture. As the hour passed, he felt a new sense of appreciation growing for Jaskier’s craft. Toward the end, the students presented a poem each, singing or reciting in spoken word for their peers. Last of all, Jaskier entertained them with a work in progress of his own before dismissal. It was then that Geralt detached himself from the frame and opened the door, stepping into the room.

“Ah, call him and he shall come!” Jaskier said, beaming at Geralt across the room. He waved him closer and wrapped an arm around his back. “Friends! This is the famed Geralt of Rivia, my muse and travelling companion. Come to sit in on a lecture, have you?”

“Could hear you squawking from two floors up,” Geralt replied. “Came to tell you off.”

The students laughed amongst themselves, not at all put off by Geralt’s sudden appearance, nor by his gruff manner of speech. It was clear that Jaskier had told his students enough about him to recognize their banter for what it was.

Jaskier crossed his arms and nodded. “Oh, yes. I’m afraid I _am_ a little stuffy this morning. I put beeswax up my nose so as not to drown in the stench of onion you’ve infected our hallowed halls with. I shall not have a clear breath until spring, alas!” He waved a hand under his nose and gagged. “Oh, pity! I can feel my throat beginning to seize! The sting of the onion—!”

“That’s the death; the destiny and heroics make your eyes water.”

“No, that’s owed to the heavy cloud of Roach emanating from your cloak.”

Another scattering of laughter the students tried in vain to suppress.

“I’m sure your students don’t pay tuition to hear you complain about the way I smell,” Geralt replied, nodded his head toward the benches.

“Indeed, but I would have them give you a sniff. Anyone who can describe that and bring a crowd to tears would be sure to graduate with full marks, whether you smell of heroics or halitosis. We were just discussing the lesson for our next lecture. We’ll be workshopping their latest assignments on evoking an emotional response. Which reminds me: everyone come prepared with a fresh-pressed handkerchief. I won’t stand for any of you to wipe your eyes and noses on your good school robes, understand? This will also be an exercise in professionalism and discipline. Singing with a runny nose and throat full of mucus is unbecoming and you lose clarity of voice; you’ll need to master your emotions if you wish to give a proper delivery. Leave the tears for the audience, or else you’ll sing as gravelly as my witcher!”

“Does the White Wolf sing?” one student asked enthusiastically. The question was followed by several more excited requests for a recitation.

Jaskier marched to the door. “Now, now, that’s quite enough. The lecture is over, and you’ve other classes to attend. I’ll not have you lingering and making my next group late.” He ushered them out with a series of disappointed groans, followed by mumbling and heavy footsteps. When the last of them stepped outside, Jaskier shut the door, turning to Geralt with a smile.

“So,” he said. “What did you think?

Geralt walked slowly across the room and sat on one of the frontmost benches. “I think you’ve finally found a way to make a living by talking,” he answered. “Glad you could put that mouth of yours to good use.”

“I can think of better uses for it,” Jaskier replied, winking.

“Undoubtedly. This, for instance.”

Geralt tossed Jaskier one of the dried figs from his breakfast. He ate the other, making himself comfortable on the bench as they waited for the next flock of students to come trickling in through the doors.

Jaskier munched his own fig and plopped onto the bench at Geralt’s side. “I take it by your posture that you’ll be sitting in on my next lecture?”

Geralt nodded. It would be fun to hear one from start to finish. “Assuming I’m not in the way,” he said, remembering the talk of muses. Much as Jaskier liked to claim Geralt for his muse in person, Geralt had a feeling he’d been more free with his speech while Geralt was out of the room. “I could explore the other classes if I’m taking up space,” he offered.

“I’d sooner kick one of my paying students out on their ears!” Jaskier replied. “You may sit on _my_ bench when we start; I’m hardly ever on it myself.”

He directed Geralt to a cushioned bench beneath a series of lancet windows. Geralt had only just risen from his place when a loud shuffling came from the hall, followed quickly by a group of panting students crowded just within the door, eyes wide as they gaped at the witcher.

“They were right,” one whispered. “He’s _here.”_

One of the braver students raised their voice and asked excitedly, “Why is the Wolf here, Professor?” though they were not quite brave enough to cross the threshold into the room.

Jaskier turned his back to the lot of them, helping Geralt—who needed no help—to his seat. “What a lot of fuss,” he said, tutting. “You act as if you’ve never seen a decrepit old man before. Haven’t you any grandfathers? You children could make a novelty out of a hatbox.”

Geralt huffed. “I’m here to hunt a siren,” he joked. “Evidently one had been shrieking in this very lecture hall since the start of the winter.”

“Rather, he was _seduced_ by the siren’s _call._ A powerful siren’s call at that; one with the loveliest voice, the smoothest complexion, and the shiniest hair.” Jaskier blew a kiss to Geralt and wiggled his fingers mockingly.

Geralt rolled his eyes. He leaned forward, bracing his head in one hand, elbow leaning on his knee. Jaskier was already making a show of things as the first batch of students began to tiptoe in through the door. Might as well start bracing himself to be part of that show. He was sure Jaskier would not get through five minutes of his lesson before making some reference or other to him and their adventures, and he was prepared for a long hour of inside jokes. He glanced out the window to avoid the eyes of the curious students.

In his reflection, he saw again the wreath. He scratched his temple, fingers brushing through the leaves once more, though he felt nothing. He absently tugged at one smooth leaf—to anyone present, he appeared to be pinching naught but a strand of his own hair between his fingers, though his reflection showed otherwise.

A berry fell from the mistletoe. It bounced and rolled along the floor and he watched as it squished beneath an incoming student’s shoe. Jaskier had not acknowledged the wreath, nor had anyone he met on his travels. He himself could not truly touch or feel it, save in his reflection. And yet, there it was. A true berry, trod upon the floor, nothing but juice and pulp now, but _real._

Geralt quickly looked at his reflection again and tried to pry another berry from the wreath. Was the power weakening? If he could remove the wreath piece by piece, perhaps that might break his curse. Though he tried, his hands came upon nothing but empty air. The leaves ruffled and moved, but nothing came of the action. He grunted and tried to think of what could have caused the berry to manifest. The lecture started as he lost himself in thought, and though he now sat watching Jaskier, it was with the vacancy of his pondering.

“—best reaction. And now, on the subject of engaging your audience, allow me to demonstrate a few methods with the aid of my lovely assistant, Geralt.”

Geralt blinked, eyes focusing once more at the sound of Jaskier calling his name. It was fitting how inattentive he’d been. It made Jaskier’s demonstration more genuine.

“Now the thing to do,” Jaskier said, “is to engage each member of the audience on a personal level. Engage the most absent viewer first, and in doing so you may capture the attention of those around them as well. Proximity is important. A good bard does not stand idly on the platform, but moves around the room. Stamina and endurance! You’ll need to be able to dance and sing at once in order to put on the best show possible. Remember: you aren’t just a singer. You’re a performer.”

Jaskier took up Geralt’s hand, still facing his students. “Now then, a good crowd pleaser I like to employ is a bit of classic flirtation. During a love ballad, I like to find a member of the audience who looks most in need of a bit of affection. These lonely people are often the ones paying the least attention to the song. A simple kiss on the hand can brighten their evening, and it has the added effect of garnering the enthusiasm of those already enraptured.”

He bobbed with a humorous curtsey, one hand holding out the length of his flowing robe, and leaned forward to kiss the back of Geralt’s hand. The students laughed as he took a bow, returning to his place in the center of the floor. Jaskier had succeeded in chastising Geralt for not paying attention while simultaneously using his thoughtlessness to progress the lesson. He preened, then blew another sarcastic kiss toward Geralt.

Two berries dropped to the floor as Geralt watched.

 _Ah,_ he thought. Now wasn’t _that_ a bit of lucky timing. He sat upright to listen to the rest of the lecture, more present now. He had a renewed sense of interest in what Jaskier was saying and, more importantly, what he might do. He had a hypothesis in mind. All he had to do was wait for the right opportunity.

That opportunity came during their midday break. Jaskier took Geralt to the dining hall, the students of his last morning lecture trailing behind. They dogged the two of them, asking all manner of questions, mainly pertaining to their adventures. By now, even the most timid had lost their fear of the towering witcher, crowding around his elbows and clamoring for his attention. He obligingly answered as many as he could, though in truth, they were beginning to give him a headache. Jaskier allowed them to follow as far as the dining hall entrance, but once he’d sat Geralt down at the faculty table, he tried to send them off again.

“Find another hatbox, won’t you please? I should like a moment’s reprieve with my friend to discuss the content of my lecture. If you don’t mind, I’d like to hear his opinion, and he’s not the most articulate conversationalist in such _eager_ crowds. He can hardly spare a word for _my_ questions if he’s too busy answering _yours._ And forgive me, but I _do_ like to pretend I take some priority, and you make it quite difficult to go on doing so.”

Geralt almost laughed at that. He would have done, were he not likewise tired of the barrage. The students were a lot to handle, and he’d had enough for one morning. He’d prefer a moment of quiet, tucked away in his corner, out of the spotlight.

“Come now, Julian; you can’t send them packing off so callously.”

Geralt and Jaskier both turned to look at the faculty member beside them with annoyance. Geralt was annoyed that anyone should use Jaskier’s given name so casually. It especially bothered him since he’d struggled to remember it when calling for Jaskier the evening before. It had taken him a few minutes to remember, and the pages had given him an odd look once he’d produced it at last. And Jaskier was annoyed because …

“Call us callous, Valdo? Bold words from someone who tore his student’s assignment in front of their nose last week.”

Valdo Marx took a sip from his glass, not so much as bothering to dignify Jaskier’s arrival with a show of eye contact. “It was poor work. Possibly poorer than _your_ early verses, but I couldn’t say. I don’t remember a single verse. I’ve had to block out the memory, you see, that I might not cringe upon hearing any of the words you so carelessly _butchered.”_

Geralt smelled the spike of anger roll off of Jaskier at the use of the word and knew it was meant to antagonize the both of them. He leaned forward casually, blocking Valdo from Jaskier’s line of sight. The students were still crowding their table and he’d rather not have them witness the ugly side of Jaskier’s temper. Granted, they’d likely already seen _every_ side of it—Jaskier complained of his unfortunate colleague often enough. Geralt knew of more than one story where they’d broken into a fight during some grand event or other.

Jaskier sniffed haughtily and shook out the napkin from his place setting. “It was one of my _fine_ early works which has just been committed to the academy records,” he said.

“And a hearty congratulations are in order!”

The woman who spoke sat herself at Jaskier’s side, bumping his shoulder with a smile.

Jaskier lit up at once and turned briefly to Valdo with a self-satisfied smirk. “Thank you, Priscilla,” he said. “It’s such a relief to have the company of someone with _manners.”_

“Speaking of manners, I believe it’s high time you made an introduction. From what I hear, your witcher arrived last night, and now you’ve been keeping him to yourself all morning.”

“Oh, of course. Priscilla, allow me to offer you the pleasure of knowing Geralt of Rivia, my friend, my muse—my eternal, perpetual headache. And Geralt, I’m sure you’ll be pleased to make the acquaintance of my friend and fellow prodigious poet, Priscilla. She’s got a head for gwent if you ever find yourself idle. And I very much hope you _will_ take the time to be idle as I suggest.”

Geralt shook her hand politely and would have liked to ask about her deck, but she turned her attention to Jaskier once more.

“Is he the famous witcher from your ballad? The one so recently immortalized?” she asked.

Jaskier nodded. “He is, though he could have told you so himself. Please, my dear, he’s not a hatstand. If you’re curious, ask him directly.”

“It’s fine,” Geralt murmured. “You have enough breath for the both of us. And this room is … stuffy,” he said, eyeing the encroaching students warily. They seemed to take Jaskier’s statement as permission to further bombard Geralt with questions, and he’d heard the collective breath they’d taken at his word. They’d hardly leave him with enough free air to answer.

“You _will_ sing for us while they lay the plates, won’t you, Jaskier?” Priscilla asked. “Geralt, please help me convince him. It’s a tradition, you know, for the staff to present their works after they’ve been added to the record. You simply _must_ persuade him or I’m afraid his modesty will deprive us the opportunity.”

Geralt snorted. Modesty indeed.

Jaskier flushed as the students took up the request, crowding closer to ask him to sing his famous ballad. He leaned in his seat, edging closer and closer to Geralt as they pushed nearer, until at last Geralt had to brace him by the shoulders to keep him from falling out of his chair.

“Would you mind so terribly?” Jaskier asked, bending his head back to look up at him.

“It’s your song,” Geralt answered with a shrug. “As your friend says: it’s tradition.”

“Well, if it’s tradition … ”

Jaskier tossed his key to one of the students. The lad immediately rushed off toward the dormitory, returning with Jaskier’s lute cradled delicately in his arms. Jaskier pocketed the key and pulled the strap of the lute over his shoulder, rising from his chair to a wave of applause.

An older man stood from the center of the head table. In response to the ruckus, he gave a short speech commemorating Jaskier’s achievement and introducing his song. A number of kitchen staff came with carts to serve their midday meal as he offered Jaskier the floor.

While the staff went to work, Jaskier entertained the audience with his most beloved ballad. Those familiar—and who was not?—joined in the chorus, filling the great dining hall with a powerful chant. _“Toss a coin to your witcher,”_ Jaskier sang, and the students echoed back, _“O valley of plenty!”_ Jaskier conducted himself in a more dignified manner than usual. Rather than skipping about the room, he adapted a more noble, somber attitude befitting the austere occasion. It was not every day a member of staff gave such a concert.

However, he did break decorum for a moment. His usual playfulness surfaced when he swiped a cracker from a student’s plate and tossed it to Geralt. Like a coin. He held Geralt’s eye through the verse, celebrating the success of the day between them, just for a minute. This piece of history was something which belonged to the both of them, and he wanted Geralt to share in the glory of it. So he reserved one verse entirely for him. He would play to the rest of the audience after. For that verse, it was the two of them, and he leaned across the table to sing their story between them, and Geralt leaned in to listen.

“Toss a c—”

 _“—kiss_ to your witcher!” Valdo cried, raising his voice above the singing crowd.

Jaskier paused briefly, though none took notice, too busy already singing the next line. There was, however, a slight lull from the voices of those closest to the faculty table. By the second _‘valley of plenty,’_ Jaskier had sufficiently recovered and was strumming along, an amused smile on his lips. He addressed the crowd to finish the chorus.

 _“Toss a”—_ he jutted over the table and swiftly kissed Geralt’s cheek on the beat _—“to your witcher!”_ he sang, voice ringing in the hall.

The crowd cheered and whooped at him, the enthusiastic students drowning out those more hesitant. Though some doubtlessly only cheered for the sake of the joke, there were others whose motivations were influenced by their affection for their professor. Priscilla laughed and gave Geralt’s back a companionable pat. Meanwhile, Valdo sat lower in his seat, stewing with a scowl.

The action left Geralt off-kilter. His cheek burned with the leftover warmth of Jaskier’s touch and he ducked his head to avoid the eyes of the crowd. He knew perfectly well that the crowd’s attention was now split between himself and Jaskier, possibly skewed in his own favor—which was _unfavorable_ to him. He distracted himself by shoving a few spoonfuls of soup down his throat. Suddenly, he choked, coughing up what had appeared at first glance to be a piece of garlic. It landed in his soup and floated on the surface. Another mistletoe berry.

He hid his face behind his cup until the merriment died down.

When at last Jaskier fell into the seat at his side, Geralt was finished eating and sat itching to leave the dining hall. But all thoughts of leaving left when Jaskier leaned over to whisper in his ear, motioning for Geralt to come closer. “Thanks for being a good sport,” he said. “I’m glad you stayed until the end.” He gave Geralt’s other cheek a quick peck and turned his attention to his lukewarm soup.

Something plopped into Jaskier’s bowl. Before Jaskier could examine it, Geralt scooped the berry out with his spoon and flung it swiftly behind. Valdo gave a cry of disgust as the soup hit the side of his face. He mopped it up as it dribbled down his neck. Jaskier snorted and tried his best to suppress his laughter at Valdo’s indignation. Later on in the privacy of the outdoors, Jaskier asked Geralt what he’d so hastily flicked from his soup.

Wishing to avoid explanations, Geralt lied and said an acorn had dropped into it from the rafters. “Squirrels in the roof,” he grunted. That much had been true at least; he’d heard them skittering around earlier that morning.

The truth of the matter was that explaining the berries would be impossible. The spectre had told him that a kiss would free him of his curse, yet the wreath still remained whenever he looked. He could not understand the significance of the berries. If every berry materialized, would the curse be lifted? But the spectre had spoken clearly: it was to be only one kiss which freed him. He simply didn’t understand what was happening. However, if there were any chance of seeing spring, was it not worth the effort of trying?

He had to get as many kisses as possible, Geralt decided.

At first, the task proved relatively easy. The next day, the students made kissing noises at him as he passed them in the halls. The bravest of all would sneak up and smack a kiss to his arm or cheek and run away shrieking in fear of being caught and chased. Geralt merely regarded these pranksters with confusion and surprise. When the second kiss came, he remembered about the berries and searched the floor at once. To his disappointment, there were none to be found.

“Alright, that’s quite enough, children! Away with you, shoo! Shoo!” Jaskier scolded. He waved the cloud of students surrounding Geralt away and bundled him into the safety of the lecture hall. Bunching the end of his sleeve in his fist, Jaskier wiped Geralt’s face clean. A few students left stains of rouge on his pale skin. He may have rubbed a little too hard; Geralt could feel the inside of his cheek push against his teeth. “Really, they’ve got no manners,” Jaskier grumbled.

“It’s fine,” Geralt replied.

“It’s horseshit is what it is. You don’t know where half of those pranksters have been.”

“They aren’t rabid dogs, Jaskier. I’m sure I’ll live.”

“They didn’t lick you, did they? Someone did that to me last year when they started hanging the mistletoe around the property. Extra spittle, too. The smedical students are _particularly_ notorious, ever since that damn paper was released about epic-demonology.”

“Epidemiology,” Geralt corrected.

Jaskier threw up his hands. “The word’s hardly three months old; forgive me if I haven’t memorized it after seeing it written _once,”_ he snapped.

It was closer to four months, but Geralt held his tongue. He smiled humorously back at Jaskier in lieu of a response. “You nearly scratched me.” He pointed to a spot on his jaw where Jaskier’s hand had brushed him during his exaggerated flailing.

“Oh, as if I could break the skin on that thick witchery mug of yours without steel talons,” Jaskier mocked. “I _beg_ your pardon. Please _do_ forgive me for nearly decapitating you. Allow me to make amends.”

He planted a kiss to the spot, lathered up a tongue of spittle, then licked Geralt’s skin grotesquely and jumped out of arm’s reach when Geralt gave a startled shout. Jaskier raced off, suddenly remembering a very important book he needed for his lecture, slamming the door behind him before Geralt could give chase. His laughter could be heard echoing all the way down the hall, courtesy of the famed acoustics.

Geralt wiped his slobbered jaw on his shoulder. Jaskier would get his before the day was done, Geralt would make sure of that. He stepped toward the door, several fresh ideas for revenge in mind, when something squished under his boot. The bitter scent of the berry made him freeze midway. At once, the answer came to him, and he understood. Not just any kiss would do.

It had to be Jaskier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So whoops, turns out this fic has a mind of its own. It's no longer in two parts. Maybe three. Hopefully only three. I still want to write my Sleeping Beauty au. Damned plot bunnies breeding like March Hares.


	3. Chapter 3

Geralt sat a long time in thought, staring out at the sea. He sat in the white sand, his back against one of the outer walls, watching the water lap up on the shore. It was quieter on the edge of the academy, away from the students and staff. Here, he could think.

What did it mean? His initial conclusion was that Jaskier loved him, and the idea had nearly compelled him to jump into the frigid sea for a lesser shock. But if so, why had the first kiss not freed him of the curse? True love’s kiss was the standard cure for most tragic spells, and the _standard_ was _one_ kiss per enchantment. However, this curse wasn’t playing by the standard rules. So Jaskier loved him—but it was not the right kind. Not exactly. That was his conclusion.

Did the curse deem platonic love lesser, in need of multiple instances of proof? If so, Geralt considered Yule a cheat. Who was Yule to measure the value of a friend’s affection and discount it? Jaskier was close as family, and family came above all else.

Geralt sighed. He’d counted as many berries as he could see, but it was impossible to tell how many there were. He couldn’t see the back properly, even holding two mirrors together. It was a guessing game. Jaskier would simply have to kiss him until the wreath disappeared. There was no telling when that would be, and Geralt had no idea how to convince Jaskier to kiss him again without things becoming … awkward. But if he was going to die anyway, he wouldn’t have to suffer the awkwardness for very long.

He was compelled to do something devious. For the sake of sparing Jaskier the heartache of finding him a frozen statue in the spring, he was ready to embrace more desperate methods. He would have to trick Jaskier into kissing him.

“Like children in school,” he grumbled, thinking of the ridiculous methods adolescents used, too shy to flirt outright. Getting drunk and playing games was the easiest: ‘truth or dare’ and ‘spin the bottle’ were staples of the hormonal teenage enterprise. He hung his head in his hands. This was going to be a fiasco.

A more rational voice spoke from the back of his mind and suggested telling Jaskier about the curse. There was no doubt Jaskier would gladly kiss Geralt to relieve him of an untimely death. But that would mean explaining the curse. If Jaskier’s kisses weren’t enough, Jaskier would see it as a personal failure, and when the time came, he would feel responsible for Geralt’s death. That was something Geralt could not burden him with.

Getting the kisses wouldn’t be so hard. Jaskier gifted them liberally, like punctuation at the end of a thought or action. There would be opportunities in abundance. And he had to admit, whether the kissing would work in the end or not, Geralt quite liked the idea of being kissed. There was nothing for it but to try.

To calm himself for the battle ahead, Geralt adjusted his posture and meditated, listening to the soft lull of the waves on the shore. The hours slipped by, the light fading. The plans all half-formed drifted away, leaving him in blessed silence. He imagined himself as one with the tide, breathing in time to the push and pull of the waves. He pictured them washing over him and carrying his worries out to sea. The spray washed over his cheeks. The wind curled around his shoulders. Somewhere, his mind called up a singing siren, and he listened to it as the water rose higher and higher. Strangely, the siren began to call his name. It sounded anxious.

“Geralt of Rivia!” Jaskier bellowed. “What in the seventh circle are you _doing_ down there! Get out of that water before you freeze!”

Geralt’s eyes snapped open. He realized all at once that his imaginings were not wholly imagined after all. He was up to his waist in icy seawater, and Jaskier had been the siren calling, now scolding him from the courtyard above. Geralt stood and the wind swept through his soaking trousers, making him shiver. He’d been trying hard to distract himself. Had done it _too_ well.

Jaskier dashed back into the courtyard and reemerged round the other side of the wall, splashing along the shore to take Geralt under his arm. He threw his own cloak over Geralt’s shoulders and tugged him urgently back towards dry land.

“You witchers and your meditating,” he muttered. “There’s a _reason_ the ledge is so steep and covered in that fuzzy green stuff and barnacles. This shore disappears at high tide! Really, you could hear the waves just fine from the courtyard. Get inside before you lose a toe.”

Within minutes, Jaskier had Geralt stripped of his things and bundled up before the fireplace in his parlour, snug under a pile of heavy furs. He rubbed Geralt’s feet until the feeling returned, then started on his hands. He wouldn’t stop fretting all the while.

“Trying to turn to a block of ice, were you?” Jaskier continued, puffing hot breath over Geralt’s blue fingers. “I’ve always enjoyed a party with a decent ice sculpture, but you wouldn’t make for the most attractive centerpiece all hunched over as you were. If you’re going to become a frozen Adonis, the least you could do is strip and strike a compelling pose.”

Geralt smiled grimly to himself. “I’ll keep that in mind for the future,” he said.

Jaskier smacked his head and added, “You’d think someone would have taught you some sense by now. In the winter, we stay _away_ from water! Lovely as the beaches are in Oxenfurt, this isn’t what we’d call ideal swimming weather. I’d send you to bed without supper, but you’d have none anyway; now we’ve _both_ missed it. Not as if I would have an appetite after the fright you gave me, but they _did_ have orange-glazed ham for my celebratory dinner. I came to fetch you to join the celebration only for my evening to become a full-blown man hunt. You owe me.”

“Sorry to make you worry,” Geralt said, looking rightfully scolded and contrite, his eyes cast low between them.

Jaskier softened at that and continued to rub Geralt’s hands more gently. “Got any feeling in these yet?” he asked.

“Not yet. It’ll come back soon.”

Bending closer, Jaskier breathed on his hands again. Though his head blocked Geralt’s line of vision, Geralt felt an odd pressure against his numb fingers. As Jaskier pulled away, Geralt watched a little white berry fall among the folds of his blanket. He raised a brow, looking down at the hands Jaskier kept cradled close.

“How about now?” he asked again.

Geralt shook his head. He sincerely wished he had.

A party was the order of business the next few days. Everyone was busy making their preparations for Yule. Those who weren’t busy decorating their rooms and the halls were hurrying to buy gifts for their friends and loved ones. Geralt had arrived at the perfect time, Jaskier said, for a Yule party at Oxenfurt was as good as a Yule party in the highest courts. In fact, it was all the better, for they could slip off whenever they liked and hide themselves away in Jaskier’s room if the crowds ever got to be too much, and there they’d have a fireplace all to themselves, and no greedy elbows trying to push them from it.

A Yule party was the very last thing Geralt wanted. As the students ran along the corridors chasing each other with sticks of hanging mistletoe, Geralt kept to the side, seething in the shadows. He was not currently inclined to celebrate the holiday of the spirit who’d condemned him to die. The season was dampened by that particular detail.

Jaskier poked Geralt’s cheek with a teasing chuckle. “Oh, don’t look so sour. I know you’re not one for these grand events, but indulge me a little, won’t you? Come! I’ll make you a wreath to wear to the party and you can be our spirit of goodwill. I have little presents you can gift to some of my students.”

“Not interested.”

“Sourpuss. It’s tradition! At the very least, you must allow me the honour of making you a wreath.”

Geralt threaded his fingers through his hair as Jaskier dragged him towards the great hall. In the passing windows, he saw the spectre’s wreath reflected back at him, mocking. At least he could remove whatever wreath Jaskier crowned him with at the end of the evening. He might pretend it was the cursed wreath when he took it off and enjoy one peaceful night’s sleep if he tried hard enough.

In the great hall, they found a whole host of people happily at work making decorations. Supplies littered every table, but Jaskier guided them directly to their place at the faculty table and piled boughs of evergreen and tinsel in front of Geralt.

“Here! We’ll exchange wreaths. I trust you’ll make something worthy of my handsome brow, but I _would_ ask you to forego putting holly in mine; I always forget it’s there and end up with cuts on my fingers from adjusting it all night. I’ll be sure to extend the same courtesy.”

Difficult as it was to dissuade Jaskier in anything, Geralt grunted, accepting his fate as he set to work making a wreath as commanded. He’d rather get the festivities over and done with, retire early, and sleep through the rest of it. When the time came for the party, he’d give it two hours at most before tossing Jaskier over his shoulder and trudging off to bed. As he wove branches of spruce together, he indulged a quick fantasy wherein he set a trap for when Yule came to visit on the first night of the festivities. He would force Yule to remove the curse, after which he would celebrate by drinking himself blind until he woke up half naked in Jaskier’s bed. Which wasn’t much different from how he’d been waking in it since he arrived. But context was key.

Something heavy dropped atop Geralt’s head, startling him from his fantasy. He straightened up and turned to see Jaskier smiling at his side, raised hands covered in sap. He cleared the leftover material from a metal platter and held it up for Geralt to inspect his wreath. Geralt smiled back at him, amused, but when he looked in the platter his smile faded. There it was again. Mistletoe, mistletoe, mistletoe. He reached up to poke at the spectre’s wreath, only to find to his great surprise that he felt it beneath his fingers. He plucked a piece of greenery from it, eyes wide. But then he realized. It was not mistletoe as he mistakenly thought. It was juniper.

“Yule Fool! Yule Fool!” Jaskier crowed. He set the platter aside and danced around Geralt’s chair. At his chant, many others turned to look, and suddenly the room was filled with merry laughter. The chant rose up, people clapping their hands along while Geralt gaped in confusion.

“What’s happening?” he grunted.

Jaskier stopped dancing and stared at him aghast. “Do you not know this game?” he gasped. “No, you can’t be so ignorant. But your face! It _can’t_ be so! Oh, you poor deprived man. Can it be true that you’ve never been a Yule Fool?”

Geralt glared at Jaskier. “What’s a Yule Fool?” he asked.

“The Yule Fool,” Jaskier explained, eyes shimmering, “is a time-honoured tradition. Every year, one member of the family—or faculty, as the case may be—is crowned the Yule Fool for the first night of the holiday. The Yule Fool is given drink every hour from the beginning of the party until midnight, an amount congruent to the hour. Six pony glasses at the chime of six o’clock, seven ponies at seven, so on and so forth until it ends either at midnight or the Fool passes out drunk, after which the spare glasses are distributed among the others.

“Usually the Headmaster would be the one to crown the Fool,” Jaskier continued, “but seeing as I was unable to attend my record induction party, the privilege has passed onto me this year. And _Valdo_ kept bragging about how much of the orange-glazed ham he’d eaten, and all the raspberry liqueur he got to have during the toast,” he grumbled.

Jaskier cleared his throat and continued. “The tenured faculty have an impressive liquor collection: vintage white wine, spiced blackberry mead, coriander gin—! They only break into it during Yule and all take bets on what hour the Fool will finally give up. If the Fool can make it past midnight, he can _keep_ every last bottle of spirits, all of them new! And I’d like more than anything to snatch a fresh bottle of raspberry liqueur out from under Valdo Marx’s big stuffy red nose.”

Geralt sighed. “And you chose me to be the Yule Fool—”

“—Because _you_ can’t get _drunk_ like the rest of us!” Jaskier concluded. “You’ll hardly be tipsy by the time midnight comes! We’ll be sure to win!”

“And what makes you think I’ll agree to do this? I don’t find the prospect of being locked in the great hall for hours on end surrounded by drunken old academics particularly appealing.”

“Free alcohol.”

“And?”

“And the party starts at _four_ in the afternoon. We have ten old directors on the School Board, _nine_ of which are at this party. The start time is determined by how many board members are present each year as they supply for the game. That’s _nine large bottles_ of the finest spirits in Oxenfurt—the finest along the western coast! And all of them fresh as mint, untouched.”

Geralt was giving in, just a little. “It’s a fine deal, but not fine enough,” he said.

Jaskier pursed his lips, thinking hard. “You’ll have the pride of being the first Fool to make it to midnight in fifty years. And you’ll get to cherish the looks on the faces of nearly the whole school board when they realize they’ve lost a collective year’s salary in spirits.”

“Hm. Keep going.”

“And …” Jaskier sat a solid minute in silence, head bowed, thinking. “It’s tradition? So you have to,” he answered weakly. “There.”

Geralt sighed again. “Well, if it’s tradition. I suppose I haven’t got a choice.”

“Yes!” Jaskier cheered, leaping to his feet. “This is the very best gift you could have given me! Oh, how I’ll savour the smile wiped off of that idiot’s smug face come midnight. Priscilla and I will sing your praises. I’m so delighted, I could kiss you!”

Geralt turned his head up at that a little too eagerly.

Jaskier squished Geralt’s cheeks and pulled his face forward, planting an exaggerated kiss in the middle of his forehead. “You’re fantastic! A saint!” he praised, punctuating his thoughts with another kiss between. He then danced from the table, a wand of juniper in his hand. He waved it in the air, calling for the attention of all present. He beat out the time in the air, humming the introduction of a song until he was sure that all were quite ready, then as one they began to sing:

_Gin, gin, never has been a greater delight than tonight;_

_Make merry the berry, but drinker be wary of juniper’s beastly bite!_

_Yule Fool, this is the rule: the ponies are out from the stable,_

_Number the hour with drinks to devour until you’re drunk under the table!_

By the time Jaskier and company finished a fourth verse, Geralt had completed his wreath. When Jaskier came trotting back to the table, Geralt slid it over to him. “Here,” he grunted. “No holly, as promised.”

Jaskier beamed and crowned himself with the wreath of spruce. “Wonderful! We’re nearly ready for the party. All that’s left is to get properly dressed.”

“Oh no,” Geralt said. “I’m not getting dressed up for another party of yours. You promised me that party in November was the _last_ you’d make me dress for until spring. My being here doesn’t change that. I’ll go, but I won’t dress up.”

“Tradition,” Jaskier chided like a magic word. He wagged a finger in front of Geralt’s face. Arm in arm, he dragged Geralt back through the corridors, on to the dormitory, squeezing close to avoid the students and staff busy hanging their garlands on the wall.

“I’m not asking much; only a bit of green and white for the season, a sprinkling of gold,” Jaskier assured him. “Nothing, erm, too fancy. Well, a bit fancy. But not _too,_ I promise.”

“Nothing too fancy …” That was a sliding scale where Jaskier was concerned.

“You’ll be _comfortable,”_ Jaskier promised. “Besides, I’ve been meaning to show off my work since you arrived. I’ve been sitting on this gift for quite some time now, never sure when to bring it along on the road. It’s a little delicate for the path so I didn’t dare try to pack it before, and I was sure you’d scold me for being so impractical, but now seems the perfect time and place.”

It occurred to Geralt that they’d never exchanged Yule gifts. It wasn’t so unusual, considering they parted before Yule ever came to pass, but it surprised him that Jaskier should be thinking of him during the holiday, enough to have a gift set aside. He thought of the box he kept in Kaer Morhen, tucked away in the dustiest corner beneath his bed. If one were to look inside, they’d find a small collection of odds and ends.

There was an old book of poetry he’d found in the old ruins of the keep, its pages tunneled by bookworms with a more literal taste for literature. One had worn a tunnel in the shape of a _J_ in a section of annotated verses which Geralt found perfectly fitting for Jaskier. It had been the first gift stowed away in the box. Geralt meant to give it the following spring, but he’d forgotten, and when he did remember, his feelings had changed. By then, the gift would feel more significant. He worried what Jaskier might read into such a gift. And so, the collection started.

The second was a collection of pressed flowers he’d gathered during his travels. Whenever Jaskier flittered off somewhere awhile without him, Geralt would find some wildflower by the roadside to replace him for a week or two. He kept these tucked in an empty potion bottle. The bottle had a crack in the side, no longer safe for storing potions, but it functioned well for the flowers. It made a fine vase for the little nosegay, but knowing he could never give the flowers without admitting why he’d picked them in the first place, he stored them away.

Around an empty bobbin, Geralt had wound a length of odd thread. Vesemir and he spent the most time in the keep library, and the spiders liked to make their webs between the shelves of the older book collections. Upon reading that one could make thread from such things, Geralt had spent the whole of the winter hunting for and gathering webs throughout the keep, going so far as to tie a large stick to the end of a broom to reach the highest beams. It was just the sort of romantic nonsense Jaskier loved, and the kind of hands-on research Geralt appreciated exploring. The twist was somewhat uneven, but the fibers had been difficult to work with. In the end, he’d thought Jaskier would find no use for the stuff, being too roughly made, and into the box it went.

Winter after winter, he gathered gifts like a nesting bird: gut strings from a griffin; a muscle shell filled with pearls he’d gathered while hunting drowners at the seaside; a small geode of blue quartz he’d found in an abandoned mine while searching for arachasae. Did Jaskier have a box of his own full of little tokens and trinkets? Geralt had never considered it before. Now, he wished to see this gift Jaskier had kept so long. What gift would Jaskier, who was so readily generous with his gifts, hesitate to give?

In the parlor, Jaskier bent to retrieve a chest from beneath the entry table. He pushed the lid back to rummage among colorful stacks of cloth, rounds of thin yarn, and endless folds of bright tissue paper. He reemerged from the chest with a bundle wrapped in dark mustard yellow paper, tied with white trimming.

Jaskier stood and held the bundle toward Geralt. “This … this is for you,” he said. He extended the bundle delicately, thumb rubbing against the trim, back and forth. A nervous habit of his. “If you don’t want to take it with you in the spring, I’d be more than willing to keep it myself, put it away for you. Or, if you don’t want to _take_ it … well, it’s quite at home in the chest.”

Geralt made no reply, but took the bundle. He set it on the entry table and untied the trim, pushing the paper away. Beneath was a fine white shirt. It was remarkably humble for what he’d been expecting. True, the linen was an unnatural white, but it was still linen, not satin or silk, not fancy brocade and gauze with their wild patterns and peacock colors. The neck was trimmed with a thick lace in the pattern of a snowflake, the point lining up perfectly with the opening. The shirt had round knotted closures, not buttons as Jaskier liked. It would be easy to wash: a detail Geralt found endearing. Jaskier had taken great consideration in such a commission.

“It’s tatted. Tatted lace,” Jaskier said, fiddling with his ties. “I started learning two years ago. Shirt took four winters to finish.”

Geralt turned away from the shirt, eyes wide. He looked back at the lace, then again to Jaskier. “You made this?” he asked.

Jaskier nodded. “The, ah, embroidery was the hardest part. Cuffs are always a bit of a problem area for me, having to poke through the extra facing. Layers make things difficult, but it helps things wrinkle less, and I tend to sew a bit too tight at times.”

Pulling the paper back further, Geralt exposed the cuffs. He lifted the shirt from the wrappings for a better look. There was more lace in the fold of the cuff, embroidery curling like frost around the edges, around the button holes. The frost was present on the hem as well, as was the lace underneath. He touched the collar, tracing the pattern at the neck. Four winters. With such delicate work, if was a wonder it hadn’t taken even longer.

“You made this.”

Geralt whispered the words to himself in awe. Jaskier had made something like _this_ to be given away. To him. Hours of work, doubtless. Lace, embroidery, sewing—skills he’d never known Jaskier to have in such a capacity until his arrival in Oxenfurt. But he recalled Jaskier talking of the embroidery on his chairs. Yes. This was done by Jaskier’s own hand, fantastic as it was to believe. A man of many hidden hats.

“I can’t wear this to the party,” Geralt said.

He heard the tremble in Jaskier’s heart before he spoke. “That’s fine,” Jaskier said. “I understand how it is, all the lace and everything; you’ve got your image to consider, and I don’t suppose it would do for you to go galivanting round in a lot of lace and frills and—”

“I’m going to get slobbering drunk,” Geralt continued, “on raspberry liqueur and blackberry mead. The stains will never come out of anything this white. I’m not going to ruin four winters of work in a single night. I’ll wear it after.”

Jaskier blinked several times. “Af—after? Did you say _after?_ What did you mean by—why would you wear it after? After what?” he stammered, eyes wide, brow knitted in confusion. He looked completely, thoroughly, comically flummoxed.

Geralt’s lips twitched upward. “After the party,” he said. “Tonight or tomorrow when it’s safe.”

“That’s … very gentlemanly of you,” Jaskier replied. He brightened a bit, standing taller.

Geralt shrugged, still admiring the shirt. He lay it back on the table, spreading it flat over the paper best he could. It was soft to the touch. Felt nice.

Slowly, Jaskier stepped closer. He removed his wreath, set it aside on the table, then reached up to gently take Geralt’s. As he lowered his hands, he let one rest lightly on Geralt’s shoulder, the other on the shirt. “Might …” Jaskier trailed.

Jaskier had done a lot of trailing and pausing in the last few minutes, Geralt noted. He was obviously nervous—the shirt was more than a simple gift. “It’s beautiful,” he said, vocalizing his approval as he knew Jaskier would like. “You have a talent for this sort of thing. I’m impressed.” He felt Jaskier’s hand scuttle away and watched as a flush of pride colored Jaskier’s cheeks. But there was still something tense about his expression.

“Were you going to ask me something?”

Jaskier met his eye, then let his gaze drop once more. He pinched the hem of the shirt, rubbing the edge of lace under his thumb. “Might I see you in it?” he asked. “Typ—traditionally, isn’t that what one does when one is given the gift of clothing? They throw the hat on or … they … with mittens or … scarves …”

Geralt watched Jaskier grow from pink to red a moment more. He opened the closures experimentally. “I suppose if I’m getting undressed already it wouldn’t hurt to try it on. Do you have something for me to wear to the party—a casualty you wouldn’t mind grieving?”

Jaskier smiled and the room seemed brighter all around him. “I’ve got just the thing! A dark, mottled red velveteen. _Very_ dark. You could spill black current wine and the stain would never appear. I’ll fetch it while you get changed. You can wear one of your black shirts underneath. Yes, that will look bold together!”

They entered the bedroom and Geralt stripped of his cloak and shirt while Jaskier went to dig through the wardrobe. He folded his things neatly on a chair before dressing. The moment the shirt was over his head, Geralt knew it would be a struggle to get out of it again. It was a heavy linen, good and warm. It was softer than he’d anticipated and it smelled—he gave it a curious sniff to confirm—of peppermint. Was it his imagining, or had Jaskier been at work with his oils, he wondered? As he fastened the closures, he almost regretted his decision to redress. His heart fluttered in his chest as he pictured himself stepping into the great hall, Jaskier’s lace around his collar, every inch stitched by his careful hand. Who else could boast such a gift from Jaskier? None, he was certain.

He heard a breath behind him and turned around. Jaskier stared, a red jerkin in his arms. Geralt smiled. He casually posed with his hands on the back of the chair as a man might rest against a cane. “What do you think?” he asked.

Jaskier nodded, taking his time. “It suits you,” he said, voice quiet. There was a sense of relief in his words, like a clear breath after spending so long indoors, stepping out into the open air. “I knew it would, but it’s different, seeing it come together. Like framing a painting after working for months on end, then stepping back to see it on the wall where it belongs.”

Geralt hummed and crossed the room to take the offered jerkin. “For once your flattery is well deserved. It’s art, what you’ve made.”

“Oh, no, I didn’t mean—I wasn’t trying to compliment myself! Others may do the boasting for me. I only meant … well, I suppose I _was_ complimenting myself a little,” Jaskier admitted. He rubbed the back of his neck and gestured at Geralt’s torso. “Of course, I meant you. Were the work of art. With the shirt. Together. That is, either alone would be, but the combination elevates the parts of the whole. Greater than the sum of the parts and all, as the saying goes.”

“Jaskier.”

“Erm, yes?”

“You’re prattling.”

“Ah.” Jaskier cleared his throat. “Yes, well, I’m still nervous about tonight. I get jittery before a grand event, as you know, and there’s a bet on to boot.” He turned back to his drawers to find himself a suit for the party, talking over his shoulder all the while. “Suppose I’ll dress in green, seeing as you’ve taken the red. We’re a team tonight, and we ought to dress complimentary.”

Geralt paused midway between undoing his buttons. He squinted at Jaskier. “I thought I was supposed to drink alone,” he said. “How are we a team?”

“We’re always a team. I’ll be keeping you supplied with plenty of nibbly things to take the edge off when your head starts getting fuzzy towards the end of the evening. If you drink all that on an empty stomach, even _you_ might have trouble seeing straight.”

“Won’t there be a dinner?” Geralt asked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drinking bet! Drinking bet! Drinking bet!


	4. Chapter 4

There had _not_ , in fact, been a formal dinner. Starting as early as four, with a luncheon at twelve, it would have been too soon. Instead, there were great banquet tables lining one of the walls in the great hall. A suckling pig sat in the center among plates of game hen, pheasant, steamed trout, and turkey. There were nettles and tender fiddlehead ferns sautéed and peppered, winter squash with roasted garlic and cinnamon, pastries with spinach and soft cheese, and a hundred dainties towered on tiered platters. Geralt was already planning his second plate before his eyes ever made it to the sweets.

“Is that caramel custard?” he asked, already stalking towards the table.

Jaskier laughed and followed behind, little silver bells chiming with his every step. His green doublet had bells sewn to the collar and cuffs which chimed pleasantly when he gestured. The front of his doublet was quilted diagonally, and in the corner of each diamond was sewn another bell. They jingled as he scooped up a plate, and they jingled as he served Geralt a little round custard. _“Salted_ caramel custard, actually,” he said.

“The perfect companion to your first drink!” Priscilla added, bouncing up beside them. She plucked a juniper berry from Geralt’s wreath and turned to toss it in the air. It landed in a glass of something light brown. “Bull’s eye!” she cheered.

“Ah, I see they already have the table laid for the first hour.”

Geralt looked over Jaskier’s shoulder. Beside the banquet table, past the cakes and pies and pastry, there lay a small table with a dark green cloth. Upon it lay a silver tray and four pony glasses filled with something that smelled rich and slightly bitter.

Jaskier ushered Geralt over to the table. “Starting with style! How considerate. The coffee will help you stay awake later on,” Jaskier said. He picked up one glass and sniffed it with a sigh. “Ah, coffee and sweet cream, with just enough vodka to make things interesting.”

One of the elderly faculty, a director by the look of him, tapped Jaskier’s arm. “None of that,” the old man scolded. “You’re not to have a sip from any of those glasses. You know the rules; this table belongs to the Yule Fool. No sharing, no helping. He’s to drink it all himself. None but his lips shall touch these glasses, else you forfeit the bet.”

“I was only sniffing. I won’t inhale a drop by appreciating the bouquet,” Jaskier huffed. He handed Geralt the glass with a wistful glance. _“That cheer that comes but once a year, oh how I’m filled with wanting. How I shall think on wine and drink, so tasty to be haunting!”_

“There’s plenty of cider and punch to tide you over,” the director replied. “Wait until you’ve had a few glasses before you start reciting, won’t you?” The perfect image of a cantankerous old schoolmaster. He would have none of Jaskier’s antics.

Geralt smiled with amusement as Jaskier pouted. He sniffed the glass for himself, humming appreciatively. He’d never had coffee before. It smelled nice—he’d smelled it before walking past teahouses and finer homes in the city. However, he soon found the taste was not as pleasing as the smell. He coughed at the bitter sting of it on his tongue. The vodka only served to amplify the bite and the sweet cream failed to live up to its name.

“That’s disgusting,” Geralt complained. “You _drink_ this swill?”

Words could not convey the depth of scandalized offence in Jaskier’s stammering. _“Swill!_ Do you—! How can—! Have you any idea how _expensive_ coffee is? You’ll be getting an entire new _bag_ of it, and you can’t appreciate a tiny _sip?_ Oh, good lords, give me the strength to put up with this outrage—this indignity!”

“You can have the coffee. I’ll take the vodka.”

“Hurry and drink the rest before I strangle you, you unappreciative, ageusic fool.”

With his nose wrinkled in distaste, Geralt made short work of the four glasses. He scraped his tongue with his teeth and quickly had a bite of custard to wash down the taste. It helped significantly. “At least that’s all for the first hour,” he said, slowing down to appreciate his next bite. It was much better without the lingering aftertaste on his tongue.

Jaskier picked up one of the empty glasses, still pouting. He sniffed one, tilted it to collect a leftover drop on his finger, then wiped it back on the rim of the glass in defeat. “If you lose and fail to get that coffee for me, I won’t talk to you for a week,” he grumbled.

Geralt chuckled. There was little chance of either of those things happening.

At five o’clock a bell rang, and Priscilla brought five more pony glasses galloping onto the table, mumbling the song under her breath. Geralt picked one up and smelled something tangy. Spiced blackberry mead, Priscilla explained, pointing to one of the directors as contributor. She leaned on Jaskier’s shoulder, staring just as longingly at the mead as Jaskier had the last round. The mead was the first decent drink of the night, Geralt thought. He finished the first in three sips and was just reaching for another when Priscilla stopped him.

“Just like that?” she cried. “No, no! You’ve got to take it slowly!”

Jaskier, currently munching a leaky cherry paczki, simply rolled his eyes. “It won’t go to his head that quickly. He’s a witcher. It takes a lot more than that to get him tipsy.” He sprinkled the bit of sugar dusting his fingers at her.

“That’s not what I mean; I’m not worried about your bet.” She took Geralt’s empty glass and held it upside-down, moping. “They only serve these drinks once a year, and some of them aren’t served _every_ year,” she said. “Either a director is missing from the party or they take to a different drink. You’ve got to savour them while you can. Don’t go guzzling them!”

Geralt nodded and picked up his plate instead. “I’ll space them out until six o’clock,” he promised. “And if we win, I’ll split the bottle with you.”

She smiled, and for a moment, Geralt could almost mistake her as being related to Jaskier. They shared that same radiant grin. She hugged his arm, wriggling with happiness, then planted a kiss to his cheek, crying, “Thank you! Thank you, dear!” before turning to do the same to Jaskier, laughing and bouncing on her heels, shaking him as if she’d just been told the princess of Redania had invited the two of them to give a concert before dashing off to share the news with one of the ladies sitting among the party-goers.

True to his word, Geralt drank slowly, Jaskier keeping time for him. They filled two little plates and sat together at one of the many tables lining the far end of the hall. The rest of the room was left open for dancing and mingling, though it was too early in the evening for such things. A band sat in a gallery above, playing soft music. Comprised of students and alumni, Jaskier explained. The most talented would be called upon to play later when the hour called for more lively music. For now, things were quiet as people eased into the affair.

Geralt felt pleasantly warm, even as they sat further form the great fireplace. Being careful with his drinks would be smart, though the drink had done nothing more than make the crowd tolerable. They had seven hours to go until midnight. Parties were a nuisance most of the time, made worse by their length. This party was comparatively dull to those Jaskier had dragged him along to in the high courts. There were fewer people for a start, and all of them academics of some variety or other. For the time, things were quiet. Tame. In fact, he had a sneaking suspicion he might even be enjoying himself.

There he was, free food and drink, Jaskier chatting peacefully across from him. It was easy enough to drown out the conversation around them the way the other guests spoke with polite, library-approved volume. Rather, the low din made for a comfortable buzz in the background. Geralt sipped the last of his mead with a smile, leaning in to listen to Jaskier’s latest tangent on the brewing process of the forthcoming coriander gin.

“What are you doing?” Jaskier asked, stopping himself in the middle of his point.

Geralt tilted his head to one side, licking the last of the mead from his lips. “What do you mean?” He glanced into his empty glass, frowned a bit, and put it aside.

“You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“Smiling,” Jaskier said. He broke out in a sly grin of his own. “Geralt, are you _actually_ enjoying the party?” he asked.

“Hm.” He wasn’t about to dignify that with an answer.

“You _are._ See, I knew you would. I had to trick you into coming, but I knew once you came, you’d see what all the fuss was about. And just wait until the party picks up; there will be presentations, a choir—last year there was a pig chase in the courtyard! And there’s always dancing, if your feet begin to itch.”

Geralt picked up a wrapped sausage, waving it in the air between them. “This is the only pig I intend to chase tonight, but I’d be more than happy to watch you scrambling after one while I sit comfortably up in the gallery with the best vantage point.”

Jaskier laughed, head falling back against his chair. “Speaking of, I see someone’s _finally_ carved the first of the pig. I can never bring myself to cut the first of anything, it’s so awkward. Would you like some while I’m up?”

Geralt shook his head and that was all the permission Jaskier needed to collect their empty plates and head for the buffet. As he slipped out of his seat, Valdo Marx slipped in, placing a tray with six glasses between them. Again, a bell rang in the hour.

“Evening,” Valdo said.

To brace himself for whatever obnoxiousness was to follow, Geralt took a blind shot of the first glass. He blinked, temporarily and effectively distracted by the surprising taste of orange vanilla rum. He grunted approvingly and set the glass aside.

“That seat was occupied,” Geralt said.

“‘Was’ being the operative word. There’s a friendly greeting for you. Don’t you know the golden rule at parties is that an open seat will be filled at first opportunity?”

“Don’t typically leave my seat. It’s a rule I’ve never had to bother with.”

Geralt picked up a second glass, hoping for some excuse to cut the conversation short. He’d interacted with the man very little since arriving, but he knew him to be an unpleasant sort from Jaskier’s ramblings. So far, they’d been proven to be an accurate reflection of his character. He downed his drink, then frowned slightly. It tasted different than the first. Sour, like vinegar.

Valdo shifted the tray with a finger, turning it until the next full glass was right before Geralt’s hand. “I was only being friendly. Haven’t I come bearing gifts?” Valdo asked.

“These drinks were provided by the directors,” Geralt rebuffed. He took the third glass, pointed it toward a far table where said directors were sharing drinks of their own. This time, he sniffed it before taking a drink. Again, the sourness of vinegar, and a slight tang. The liquor was strangely thick on the bottom of the glass, clinging. _Ah._ Geralt thought. _So that’s it._

“Oh, you _are_ impossible to please,” Valdo grumbled. “I place an olive branch before you and you go on being taciturn. It’s a party! Shouldn’t we wipe the slate clean, try getting off on the _right_ foot? It would seem you’ve become something of a fascination of late. The students are fond of you, or curious at any rate, and I should like to stay in their good graces. Yes, I’ve ulterior motives in coming to you now, but nothing vile. Even a passing camaraderie will do wonders to improve the relations between me and my students. So, shall we let sleeping dogs be bygones?”

Valdo raised one of the empty glasses from the tray, smiling awkwardly.

Geralt suppressed the urge to ridicule the botched phrase. Politely, he raised his fourth glass, trying to get the drinks finished quickly so as to leave this part of the hour behind. “Bygones,” he grunted, clinking their glasses.

With a smile, Valdo returned the empty glass to the tray as Geralt took his forth shot. Valdo said a few things about how he admired his students, something about relationships between faculty facilitating a healthy work environment, but Geralt paid no mind. He finished the fifth drink in a heartbeat and pointedly asked Valdo to send his regards to the directors. Across the room. At their table. He emphasized that it might be impolite to keep them waiting. However, Valdo found just one more thing to talk about, glancing between Geralt and the final glass.

Without hesitation, Geralt drained the sixth glass and licked the rim in a sarcastic manner. A flash of disgust crossed Valdo’s features, his mouth twitching slightly. Though faint, his eyes widened in disbelief as Geralt set the glass back on the tray.

Geralt pushed the empty tray at Valdo’s hands. “Again,” he said, “thank you for the drinks. They were interesting, though you might have a word with the one who prepared them; they were unevenly mixed, and I believe someone mistook the salt for sugar. Not that I mind in the least. I’m _fond_ of salt, mustard, _and_ vinegar in great quantities … though perhaps not in such fine drinks. Seems a waste. Perhaps the old men have lost their sense of taste.”

To his _great_ satisfaction, Geralt watched Valdo hasten away, a distinct stomp in his step. Even better, Jaskier happened by in time to catch the end of the conversation, returning with two plates laden with pork, fruit, and fresh cheese tarts.

“What was _that_ about?” Jaskier asked, sitting down and presenting Geralt with a small plate. His own was loaded high with the first _proper_ food of the night. There were only so many sweets a man could eat without making himself sick.

“Your friend—”

“Not my friend,” Jaskier cut in.

“Sarcasm, my dear.”

“Even in sarcasm, there are certain things you ought not to joke about.”

Geralt chuckled. “Your associate tried to poison my drinks with a vomiting infusion: salt, mustard, and vinegar. An attempt to force the results of the bet in his favor.”

“He would, the bastard,” Jaskier scoffed, stabbing at his pork. He leaned on his hand, watching Valdo’s form retreat across the room. “I heard him placing his bet earlier for half seven. What a stupid stunt to begin with; as if a witcher who can survive venoms and poisons could be so easily intoxicated by something a _child_ mixes for a prank.”

He paused. Turning his head, he asked, “Did you call me ‘my dear’ just now?”

Geralt fiddled with his empty glass. “Just finished six pony glasses in under ten minutes,” he mumbled.

Jaskier bit his lip. “Oh, please no. If you’re mocking my endearments, you’ve passed tipsy, and it’s only after six! We’ve got six more hours left in the game! You can’t be getting drunk already. Tell me you aren’t.”

“It’ll pass,” Geralt said, clearing his throat. “Just an empty stomach: only had a tart and a rolled sausage. Be fine as soon as I eat something.”

He was not tipsy—not in the slightest. But … he _was_ warm and relaxed. Enough to let his affections slip through. He picked up a tart and occupied himself with it so as not to say more. Besides, if he was eating, he was sobering, and Jaskier would stop scrutinizing him.

Jaskier nodded and began to unload food from his own plate onto Geralt’s. “I _knew_ it was a good idea to get a full plate. I figured that as soon as I got this delicious-smelling pork close enough it would tempt you. Sneaky me! I took two extra slices for you in preparation. I knew you’d mooch at some point when my head was turned; you always do at these affairs.”

“I’m only looking out for your figure,” Geralt joked. “You complain so often that these parties will be the death of your wardrobe.”

“Well, I wish you’d look after my figure by protecting me more from turnips than cream cakes. You only ever steal the best things on my plate.”

“Perhaps if you had a sip of Valdo’s concoction, you might lose your appetite altogether, then you’d have nothing to fear from the desert table.”

“Just hearing his _name_ is making me lose my appetite,” Jaskier replied. He pushed his plate away in exaggerated distaste, nose scrunched most endearingly. “That makes me think a bit of revenge is the order of the night. What say we have a bit of fun, spike his drink with some of your white gull? Have you got a flask tucked up in the room? I’d love to see him black-out drunk, making a fool of himself on the ballroom floor.”

“I wouldn’t waste a drop on him. There’s vinegar on the buffet if you want justice.”

“Spoilsport,” Jaskier grumbled.

Without another word, Geralt tucked into his dinner. The plate was loaded with sweet minted pork, purple carrots, green peas, and a warm salad of cabbage and onion. If nothing else, the food made the whole ordeal worth the hassle. Jaskier didn’t so much as bat an eye when Geralt stole one final bite from his carrots. If anything, he seemed to smile wider for it.

His meal done, Geralt sat back, a sight of satisfaction on his lips. He was of half a mind to stodge a little, but the buffet was refreshed each hour, and he was curious to wait and see what more was to come. However, the temptation to reserve a plate of salted caramel custards was almost great enough to make him rise again. He would wait awhile first. If there were more leftover at the end of the hour, he would sneak a few for later. Privately, he wondered if he might ask Jaskier to pocket a few in his doublet, for he had no pockets convenient.

They passed a pleasantly quiet hour of conversation, their chairs slowly inching closer together. It was strange how the winter changed the topics, but then there were so many other things in the spring and summer that needed their attention: contracts, weather, planning their travelling route, and all the necessities of day to day. Being idle, hobbies were the chief topic of interest. The road did not permit much in the way of leisure and they could only bring so much in their bags. Here, there was much to entertain, and Geralt learned the true depth of Jaskier’s admiration and knowledge for textiles. Every doublet was a deliberate choice: the material hand-chosen in relation to the season, the shape and cut always in strict following with the fashion of the day. Of course, Jaskier never wore anything he made himself as he felt it would be boasting. The clothes he made were gifts for others to enjoy—he would let _them_ to do boasting if they liked.

Jaskier was fascinated to learn what winter was like with the wolves in the keep. Perhaps it was the drink, but Geralt spoke at length about his chores, going into more detail than he had in the past. The deeper truth was, he knew that he would not likely see the keep again. Such simple things as household chores had become nostalgic.

In repairing the crumbling keep, he’d learned carpentry, masonry, smithing—the fundamentals. With some pride, he described the fireplace in his room. He’d set the stones himself, carved four small wolves in the tiles. He did not say, but in recent years, he’d added a buttercup to the end of both his coal shovel and poker. Of course, he described the tools for Jaskier in every other way, how he drew and twisted the iron, twisting it back again decoratively to form the handle.

Seven o’clock came with a passing interest. Some professor, a colleague of Jaskier, arrived with the silver tray and explained the drinks and what to pair them with. It was some walnut concoction. Geralt hadn’t paid much attention. He’d been in the middle of an anecdote when the tray arrived, and he hardly tasted the first glass, so busy he was with his story.

They had a mutual interest in furniture: Jaskier dabbled in upholstery and Geralt in carpentry. Jaskier suggested they work together on a project before the end of the season, perhaps a set of chairs. They would keep one in Oxenfurt and the other in Kaer Morhen, so they might sit together as a pair even from a great distance. But Geralt rejected the idea. Should he fail come the end of winter, he could not leave Jaskier alone, sitting across from an empty chair.

Geralt started on his second glass, finally taking the time to taste his drink. There had been a comfortable lull in the conversation at last. He found he enjoyed the nutty flavor and he held his glass out to give Jaskier a sample before remembering himself.

Jaskier sighed with longing as the glass was pulled away. “Oh, misery!” he sang. “You mock me, lead me to temptation and snatch it way so heartlessly. This is injustice. This is cruelty, love.”

“Come midnight, you’ll have the whole bottle to enjoy,” Geralt assured him.

“If we shall _see_ midnight. The drinks will only get stronger as we go. I will drive myself to distraction the nearer we come to that fated hour. Many a fantastic night of drinking hinges on the outcome of this gamble. You know, I think the directors all came this year to spite me. Yes, they’ve grown jealous of the success of my youth and have decided to knock me down a peg. I’ve never known a Yule Fool Fest with every hour filled. Well, nearly every hour at any rate.”

Geralt rolled his eyes and set down his empty glass. “I think you would do well to distract yourself before you’re driven to distraction.”

“Oh? And how shall I _distract_ myself then? As your assistant in this endeavour, whether I’m keeping you fed, keeping you supplied with drink, or holding back your hair when things turn sour, I’ve sworn the oath of the Yuler upon selecting you that I would stay at your side until the end of this whole affair.” Jaskier poked Geralt’s drinking tray with a frown, continuing his short speech with feeling. The feeling was specifically that of resigned misery. “I sit, I watch you drink, and I’m anxious. I sit, I watch you _not_ drink, and I’m anxious all the same.”

“Then don’t sit,” Geralt suggested. He stood from his chair and pulled Jaskier’s out for him.

Jaskier crossed his arms and slumped down in his seat. “My feet will get sore if I stand beside your chair all night,” he said.

“And my feet itch. I’m suggesting we take a break from sitting.”

“And do what?” Jaskier asked. “Take a walk? If we leave in the middle of the party, we lose.”

Geralt wobbled his chair in annoyance. “Will you just get up?”

“How can I in the middle of this _earthquake?”_ Jaskier complained, gripping the arms tight. “Fine! We’ll do a lap around the room, but not a step into the hall. If you need fresh air, we can go by the windows. Really, what’s with this behaviour of yours? And why drag me along as well?”

Geralt inclined his head towards the area cleared for dancing beneath the gallery. Over the last hour, the music had picked up. There were dancers on the floor now, twirling to the modest music. He cleared his throat, leaning against the high back of the chair. “My feet itch,” he repeated, mumbling the phrase which Jaskier had used the hour before.

Jaskier looked at Geralt. He looked towards the dancers. Then Geralt once more. “Are you inviting me to dance?” he asked incredulously.

“Are you agreeing?”

Jaskier grabbed Geralt’s hand before he could revoke his invitation.

Geralt’s feet had not itched, but now the rest of him did with that familiar tingle. Jaskier’s hand was warm in his, and it seemed to be the source. He let himself be dragged into the middle of the dance, Jaskier too eager to wait until the next song to begin. Jaskier turned abruptly and Geralt nearly stumbled, but Jaskier caught him. In a minute, Geralt had a hand on his hip, burning like flame between the layers of his jerkin, and Jaskier was smiling up at him brighter than any fire.

“Do you know how to dance?” Jaskier asked, already taking the lead.

Seeing as he’d been the one to suggest dancing, Geralt had meant to take the lead himself. There did not seem much chance of that. Jaskier was too quick to begin, and already they were out of rhythm, one step ahead of the rest. “I know enough to know that you’re out of time,” he answered. He slowed Jaskier down with a hand at his shoulder. His hand stayed there afterwards.

It was awkward; he felt as if the whole of the ballroom were looking at his hand, and he was worried for his posture. He looked at the other dancers to reassure himself of his position and found that very few people watching seemed interested at all. They looked with passing glances or stared at the dancers with bored, glazed eyes. All but Priscilla, whose eyes shone brightly the moment she caught them. She waved and Geralt felt the hand at his waist briefly lift to wave back.

Geralt glanced at her. “Does Priscilla dance?” he asked.

He felt Jaskier slow ever so slightly.

“She’s clumsy and graceful in equal measure,” Jaskier answered vaguely.

Geralt hummed. That was odd. Jaskier was so quick to sing the praises of his friends. He looked at her once more and smiled. “I was just thinking: it looks as though Marx might be approaching her for a turn. I was hoping she did not dance well. She might step on his feet for us.”

Jaskier’s head spun round and he leaned for a look, picking up pace once more. “You don’t say? Well, it seems you _do!_ Wonder of wonders, what’s got him hot to trot?”

“Perhaps seeing an inebriated witcher dance with better footwork wounded his pride.”

Jaskier snorted. “Perhaps he’s preemptively stolen one of our prize bottles. He looks flushed.”

“So do you,” Geralt replied.

“It’s the drink.”

“You haven’t had a drop yet.”

Jaskier lowered his face, looking down at their feet. “Well, I’ve—that’s—you’re out of step. Move your left foot with mine. And anyway, I’ve sat with you, breathing the fumes from your drinks all this time, I feel as if I’ve had more than enough of my own. It counts.”

Geralt hummed. “Does it?” he asked.

“It does,” Jaskier confirmed. He looked back towards Valdo and Priscilla for distraction. “Do you know what they’re saying now? I can’t hear them from here.”

“We were right: he’s just asked her to dance.” The spinning and the drink made him feel lighter, dizzy. A funny little idea popped into his head. He leaned in closer, feeling playful, and spoke into Jaskier’s ear in a startling imitation of Valdo. _“Darling Priscilla,”_ he said. _“Will you do me the honour of this next dance?”_

Jaskier gave a cry of disgust and rubbed his ear against his jerkin. “Oh, Geralt, that’s disgusting! Never use that voice again!” he begged.

Geralt chuckled. He leaned in again, dropped his voice low and asked, “What voice would you have me use instead?”

Beneath the pleasant buzz of his own limbs, he could almost swear he felt Jaskier tremble.

“I think … I think we ought to spare Priscilla the indignity and hurry to her rescue,” Jaskier said. The song was drawing to an end. He tugged Geralt towards her table, suggesting they save her by initiating some friendly conversation. As he turned, Geralt’s lips brushed his ear. He stumbled, bracing himself in Geralt’s arms, then lead them quickly the rest of the way, whereupon he collapsed at his friend’s side, arms flung around her shoulders.

“Oh, Priscilla, I shan’t survive the night,” he moaned. “This was a terrible idea. You ought to have talked me out of it.” He glanced back at Geralt and fumblingly added, “These—these shoes! Oh, terror fashion! These damned shoes have murdered me after a single dance.”

Priscilla nodded, patting his back affectionately. “Oh, indeed. I was just telling Valdo that I came in the wrong shoes for dancing. We do share a fatal taste for fashion, don’t we?”

“Beauty is pain—pain is beauty,” Valdo said.

Geralt leaned against Jaskier’s chair, eyeing Valdo with a humorous glint in his eye. He tilted his head, crossed his arms over his chest. “Then you must be the most beautiful among us.”

All three looked at him in disbelief.

Jaskier detached himself from Priscilla. “How do you mean?” he asked.

Geralt smiled. Perhaps his last joke had not gone over well, but he was sure to redeem himself now. “Because,” he answered, “he’s the biggest pain at the party.”

Jaskier _choked_ on his laugh. Priscilla covered her mouth, burying her face in Jaskier’s shoulder to suppress the burst of giggles as they rose. All the while, Valdo stood gaping.

Geralt inclined his head, accepting the applause of the other two with gratitude. It was a small revenge for Valdo’s trick, but satisfying nonetheless. At any rate, it was the most appropriate at his disposal, being the most harmless. Simple banter.

But it was not taken as such. Valdo looked like a puffed parakeet, feathers ruffled in indignation. “Well!” he said. “If pain is beauty, it’s a shame _you_ could not be more handsome. All those scars on your hands, and there—!” he pointed to a scar over Geralt’s left eye. “That must have hurt a great deal. Such a scar. And there are more covered, I’m sure. All that pain, and all that’s come of it is blemished skin.”

The laughter came to an abrupt stop.

Jaskier rose from his seat. He stepped up to Geralt, taking his face in his hands. “You would know all about blemished skin, Valdo _Marks.”_

“Valdo had a whole _face_ of pock marks when—”

“But this is not a blemish,” Jaskier continued, cutting off Priscilla’s explanation. “This is a mark of victory. Every scar is. They prove he’s come out of a battle the victor against a death most foul. And you were right; it’s a shame he cannot more handsome; it comes of reaching perfection. There comes a point at which there is nothing left to improve.”

Geralt stepped back, feeling a number of curious eyes turning their direction. “Jaskier,” he muttered. “You don’t have to—”

“Hush. I know I don’t.” Jaskier followed after him and stepped even closer. “I say it because I want to. Because it ought to be said.”

And Jaskier kissed the scar, kissed Geralt’s closed eye.

Geralt heard the berry fall through the blood rushing in his ears.

“As I said: perfection.” Jaskier smiled and wrapped an arm around Geralt’s back. “Now come along. You’ve still got five drinks to finish before the end of the hour and I’ve left one lonely cream puff abandoned on my plate.”

He bowed his head at the others. “See you two at midnight. We’ll save you that blackberry mead, Priscilla. And Valdo? When you’re quite done putting vinegar in people’s drinks, you might try putting it on your salad like a gentleman. If not, I’ll put a rope around your neck and we’ll have another grand _pig chase_ to conclude the festivities.”

Jaskier nodded and nudged Geralt back towards their own table. He waved a hand in the air, not bothering to look back after having said the final word. “Ta!” he cheered pleasantly.

It was a rush to finish the drinks. Eight o’clock came fast upon them, and with it came a fresh tray: eight pony glasses of a sweet dessert wine. It was odd drinking wine from a pony glass, but that was the measurement. Besides, if he tried to swirl the wine in a proper glass, it was likely he would spill over the rim.

Pacing was going to be a struggle moving forward. After the first three glasses, Geralt had to be honest. He was starting to feel a true buzz coming on. He’d felt the makings of it before, but it had always settled with a bit of time. They did not have the luxury of time now. By nine, he was slouching in his chair, leaning with his elbows on the table.

“Fingers, Geralt. How many?”

Geralt grabbed Jaskier’s waving hand. “Three. I’m not completely inebriated yet, Jaskier.”

“You’ve got that glassy look in your eyes. You’ve had one drink nearly every five minutes. That’s going to go straight to your head, and _don’t_ you tell me you aren’t affected by it.”

“I’m very affected,” Geralt confessed. He felt warm and tingly and so very relaxed. His senses dulled, he no longer cringed when one of the drunken ladies squealed at a joke across the room. They were not the only ones making merry at the party.

“How do you feel?” Jaskier asked.

Geralt considered the thought a moment. “Comfortable.”

“No growing need to fetch a chamber pot or hang your head out the window?”

“I have a need to hang my head,” Geralt agreed, “but not out any window. My head is getting heavy. I feel I could take a nap.”

He leaned his head down on Jaskier’s shoulder with a sigh. Oh, that was _very_ comfortable. The quilted material was soft and plush—he had the ridiculous notion to stretch out on the floor and lay his head on Jaskier’s chest like a pillow. He nuzzled the fabric a bit as he settled. There were still a few minutes until ten o’clock; he could rest until then.

“Geralt.” Jaskier shrugged his shoulder, shaking him off. “You can’t go to sleep,” he said. “If you close your eyes, you might not wake up, and this would all be for nothing.”

But Geralt only nuzzled closer, his nose to Jaskier’s neck. “I won’t fall asleep,” he promised.

“You’re half asleep already, you liar.”

“Must be.” He sniffed the juncture of Jaskier’s neck—something he would never do awake. Jaskier smelled warm, salty, his perfume faded over the course of the evening. Geralt swayed slightly as he tried to lean further against Jaskier’s side. How nice it would be to sway in Jaskier’s arms. There was a gentle song playing now, and he tugged at Jaskier’s doublet. “Let’s have another dance,” he said.

“You can hardly keep yourself upright in a chair,” Jaskier replied. “If I get you out of it, you’ll crumple on top of me. There’ll be no dancing for you.”

“Might help me wake up.”

Jaskier scoffed. “I very much doubt that.”

Geralt startled up at the sound of a trilling bell. He looked and saw Valdo coming up with a fresh tray of glasses covered over with a white napkin. He hung his head and groaned.

“Evening, gentlemen,” Valdo said. He seemed to have gotten over their earlier squabble quite completely, and he spoke with a chipper tone.

“Come to poison the drinks again?” Jaskier asked.

Valdo smiled pleasantly. “Not at all. I simply wished to be the one to have the pleasure of delivering _these_ to your friend.” He pulled the napkin back, revealing nine glasses filled with a bright red drink.

Jaskier made a pathetic wheezing sound.

“Raspberry liqueur,” Valdo announced. He placed the first glass in front of Jaskier cheekily, then turned to Geralt and said, “Enjoy,” before marching away with a wave of his napkin.

Geralt took the glass from Jaskier before he could even think of trying it.

“Gera-a-alt!” he moaned piteously. “Can’t I have only a _sip?”_

Geralt downed the glass with a shake of his head. “If you take one drink, we lose the competition. No helping the Fool, remember? I have to drink these myself.”

Jaskier pawed at his arm, looked at him with the biggest pleading eyes. “But Geralt, look at the state you’re in!” he cried. “You’re listing in your chair. I _have_ to try it! Just in case!”

Geralt put an arm out and kept Jaskier at length. “No,” he said with the conviction of a more sober man. “If you drink from even one glass, that’ll be the end of it. You want the bottle, not a sip. We’ve only got three hours left. I may be tipping, but I’m not to the point of falling down drunk. I’ll make it to midnight conscious if I have to crawl through the last hour on my knees.”

To spare Jaskier the temptation, Geralt began to drink the rest of the liqueur one by one, throwing each back to another pained cry from Jaskier. He paused on the sixth drink, pointed at Jaskier and said, “I’m doing this for you. Forgive me for not savouring them this once.” He drained the glass and smacked Jaskier’s hand away from the seventh.

“I could _strangle_ you!” Jaskier hissed. “Are you at least _tasting_ it?”

“Yes, and that makes it harder.” It was the sweetest drink of the evening, almost a syrup, and it tasted like summer in a glass. His heart squeezed in his chest at the thought. He ought to have taken the time to enjoy the summer more. But he had to hope there would come another. The winter was not over yet. And neither was this bet.

He emptied the seventh glass.

“Do you really think you’ll make it to midnight?” Jaskier was still fretting. He clung to Geralt’s sleeve once more, looking anxiously at the fast disappearing glasses.

Geralt nodded. “This is nothing. You”—he drank the eighth and sighed—“should _smell_ the things Lambert mixes with white gull. The fumes alone would make a man go blind. I’ve drunk … drunken? I’ve drunk things that would put you in an early grave.”

“You’re _going_ to put me in an early grave drinking that way. Oh, please! Not the last glass! At least drink the last one slowly!” Jaskier pleaded. He pressed against Geralt, looking up at him with teary eyes. So big and blue.

Geralt hesitated, then sipped the drink slowly. He let the liqueur sit on his tongue and closed his eyes, taking a few seconds to appreciate the taste. It only took three sips to empty the glass, and for each he allowed the drink to linger before swallowing. When the glass was empty, he tilted it to get the very last drop. It fell onto his waiting tongue, cool and sweet, right before Jaskier’s eager eyes. And that was the end of it.

Like a man possessed, Jaskier took hold of Geralt’s face and tugged him forwards. Before Geralt could pull away, Jaskier opened his mouth and kissed him. Geralt felt as though someone had poured a bucket of ice water over his head. He sobered at once, eyes wide, heart stopped in his chest. Jaskier’s tongue slid into his mouth, prodding, licking, _tasting_ as he tried to chase the remains of the raspberry liqueur. Geralt closed his eyes and tried to lean into it just as Jaskier pulled away. As Geralt watched, Jaskier licked his lips, and the sight nearly drove him mad.

“You said I couldn’t drink from the _glass,”_ Jaskier purred.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know Geralt is going to throw out every last glass in Jaskier's room so Jaskier won't have a glass to drink that liqueur from lol. He'll have to find an ... alternate method.


End file.
